And I always went back to a city street Where madness, pain, and laughter persisted — Still unpainted (trans. Clare Cavanagh)

Poets wait for inspiration, but objects and faces assault the painter, they arrive shrieking. (trans. Clare Cavanagh)

Look, look greedily, when dusk approaches, look insatiably, look without fear. (trans. Clare Cavanagh)

...the poet suffers for millions. It is still dark at the bus stop, a few people huddle in the cold, seeing them you think, lucky souls, you only suffer for yourselves. (trans. Clare Cavanagh)

Figs are sweet, but don’t last long. They spoil fast in transit, says the shopkeeper. Like kisses, adds his wife, a hunched old woman with bright eyes. (trans. Clare Cavanagh)