“Love is the true state of the human heart. When we love, we unguard our hearts. We open ourselves up to the world with- out any restraint. When passion flows, desires stir, our earthy senses become...”

“Poetry contains few words but tells much. Its beauty is that by being condensed it is rich in meaning and open to various interpretations. Unlike prose, there is no boundary to poetry. There is not...”

“Most of the books of erotic poetry available today are either too old or are big anthologies covering the same poets and poems. There is a lack of new and original work. Most of us have read someth...”

“I believe eros dwells in our innermost being as the spirit of creative expression. To me, eros is a great path that we must walk, a song we listen to, a game that we hunt and enjoy, a lesson to lea...”

“Every soul needs a touch of erotic love. A deep, unconditional love is what every heart truly desires. True love is passionately erotic.”

“Poems are word paintings. Poetry doesnt belong to time. Thats why often you feel as if poems are speaking directly to you.”

“Mark ran his fingers over the bindings and whispered words, written long ago, words that wriggled through the aged leather, trembled beneath his touch. What lives and loves, hopes and dreams, death...”

“When I read books, it is like I have met the sacred souls.”

“Non lo avevo mai compreso. Era ottimista sempre e io ... io mi lasciavo trascinare dalle emozioni, mi si abbattevano addosso senza poterci fare nulla.”

“Poems are word paintings. Poetry doesnt belong to time. Thats why often you feel as if poems are speaking directly to you.”

“Poems are word paintings. Poetry doesn’t belong to time. That’s why often you feel as if poems are speaking directly to you.”

“Oh, Death was never enemy of ours!We laughed at him, we leagued with him, old chum.No soldier's paid to kick against His powers.We laughed, knowing that better men would come,And greater wars: whe...”

“I grew up in this town, my poetry was born between the hill and the river, it took its voice from the rain, and like the timber, it steeped itself in the forests.”

“It is strange how a scrap of poetry works in the mind and makes the legs move in time to it along the road.”