Slang is a language that rolls up its sleeves, spits on its hands, and goes to work

Poetry is the opening and closing of a door, leaving those who look through to guess about what is seen during a moment

Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits

Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance.

Poetry is a packsack of invisible keepsakes

Life is like an onion you peel it off one layer at a time, and sometimes you weep

Life is like an onion: you peel it off one layer at a time, and sometimes you weep

A man may be born, but in order to be born he must first die, and in order to die he must first awake

Life is like an onion you peel it off one layer at a time, and sometimes you weep

Let a joy keep you. Reach out your hands and take it when it runs by