The writer first notes his feelings, then examines the depths of other souls as a condition offered by the art of writing: challenge and passion.
A century for mother earth is the equivalent of a beat of wings.
The column of Infinity is a more complicated form of a stone flower that purifies the sky of storms.
Without history we are a tree without roots.
Yet hope is reborn in the world of torrid heat that passes through the human soul. With outstretched arms, I waited for hope to fall, but I knew that this pain would save my life, that I had a duty to continue searching for the spring among the burnt stones.
What a wonderful world it would be if a man had the heart of a dog. The dog love the master and bites his enemy.
The universe is the heart through which time flows.
Spring is a verse with the harmonies of flowers and wind, which turns the earth into a colorful alphabet for children. And every time a letter spins, it turns into a butterfly with sun wings.
What the wind blows, brings the sun, this miracle (life from life) of which we are the core.
Romantic is the incurable dreamer, and who could judge him? The country in which he lives is the dream: all his sins are the ideals of an innocent love, where poetry becomes a work of art, born from the heart of the stellar temples.