I feel lonely as I gaze at the moon. I feel lonely as I think about myself, and I feel lonely as I ponder upon this wretched life of mine. I want to cry out that I am lonely, but no one asks me how I feel.

I am ashamed of the polished words,
so I hide them
throwing rough and crude notes
like the Rondanini Pietà
still raw with matter
on the lines of crystal
like the soul that sparkles in one’s eyes.
...

Irony limits, finitizes, and circumscribes and thereby yields truth, actuality, content; it disciplines and punishes and thereby yields balance and consistency.

The oath on the Quran may have made headlines, but the more significant question is not what book Mamdani swore on. It is what stories, alliances, and blind spots shape the political movements that shaped his rise to office.

People who live in society have learned how to see themselves in mirrors as they appear to their friends. I have no friends. Is that why my flesh is so naked?

Living unloved, to die unknown,
Unwept, untended and alone.

I always wonder why some poets become "international"? I guess they were tremendously good. I think of people like Pablo Neruda. He crossed all sorts of geographical lines. But he was also from that place, located in that place.

He was a leader who gave priority to dialogue and sincere love. His presence caused a great change in Balinese society and peace for Hindus.

There are innumerable instances of things which attach themselves to something else, then waste and destroy it. The body has lice; a house has mice; a country has robbers; inferior men have riches; superior men have benevolence and righteousness; priests have the Buddhist law.

Yün, I think, is one of the loveliest women in Chinese literature. She is not the most beautiful, for the author, her husband, does not make that claim, and yet who can deny that she is the loveliest?

If you are in love with a thing, you will forget its ugliness," said Yün.

Li Yi-an was the greatest poetess of China. Once her husband asked one of his friends to pick out the best lines that he liked from a number of his poems, having, however, concealed in them some pieces by his wife. The friend picked out, to his dismay, only lines from her pen.

Losing him was blue like I’d never known;
Missing him was dark grey all alone.
Forgetting him was like trying to know
Somebody you've never met.
But loving him was red;
Loving him was red.

They were walking side by side, but each was alone.

And it doesn't seem to matter, and it doesn't seem right,
'Cause the will has brought no fortune, still I cry alone at night,
Don't you judge of my composure, 'cause I'm bothered every day,
And she didn't leave a letter, she just up and ran away.