Poetry is a shuffling of boxes of illusions buckled with a strap of facts.
The greatest certainty in life is death. The greatest uncertainty is the time.
The greatest cunning is to have none at all.
For we know when a nation goes down and never comes back, when a society or a civilization perishes, one condition may always be found. They forgot where they came from. They lost sight of what brought them along.
Enough small empty boxes thrown into a big empty box fill it full.
Poetry is a tracing of the trajectories of a finite sound to the infinite points of its echoes.