Poems are my link with the times, with the new life of my people.

Who will grieve for this woman? Does she not seem too insignificant for our concern? Yet in my heart I never will deny her, Who suffered death because she chose to turn.

We aged a hundred years, and this happened in a single hour: the short summer had already died, the body of the ploughed plains smoked.

No, not under the vault of another sky, not under the shelter of other wings. I was with my people then, there where my people were doomed to be.

The whole time I was hoping my silence would fit yours and exclamation marks would gently float across time and space so that boundaries would be crossed; the whole time I was praying you would read my eyes and understand what I was never able to understand. See, we were never about butterflies. We’ve always been about burning stars. All about us is unearthly and radiant.

As the future ripens in the past, so the past rots in the future -- a terrible festival of dead leaves.

The word dropped like a stone on my still living breast. Confess: I was prepared, am somehow ready for the test.