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My poetry is bare, showing its pink and purplish imperfections and its injuries. I buy it a dress to hide its bruises, to ornate it a little, to make it smile. On its rather ugly and mishaped body, the dress looks comical, ridiculous, clumsy, like a bird with a broken wing.…

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It is a day of swallows and grasshoppers, of white clouds and suntanned arms. In the yellow field wheat ears burn, lit by fantasies. One of wheat, one of rye. Summer love, holiday love is in the air. Under the thickness of the harvest, their roots search, call each other.…

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I have become interested in Carracci / Ludovico Carracci