In a room where people unanimously maintain a conspiracy of silence, one word of truth sounds like a pistol shot.

If I am all mankind, are they themselves without me?

Only a white-haired old man, who would be a prophet Yet is not a prophet, for he's much too busy, Repeats while he binds his tomatoes: No other end of the world will there be, No other end of the world will there be.

A weak human mercy walks in the corridors of hospitals and is like a half-thawed winter.

He returns years later, has no demands. He wants only one, most precious thing: To see, purely and simply, without name, Without expectations, fears, or hopes, At the edge where there is no I or not-I.

What is poetry which does not save nations or people?

We have become indifferent to content, and react, not even to form, but to technique, to technical efficiency itself.