Poetry is a dividend from what you know and what you are.

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

Grow your tree of falsehood from a small grain of truth. Do not follow those who lie in contempt of reality. Let your lie be even more logical than the truth itself, so the weary travelers may find repose.

When I die, I will see the lining of the world. The other side, beyond bird, mountain, sunset.

The history of my stupidity would fill many volumes.

I knew that I would speak in the language of the vanquished No more durable than old customs, family rituals, Christmas tinsel, and once a year the hilarity of carols.

Even if that is so, there will remain A word wakened by lips that perish, A tireless messenger who runs and runs Through interstellar fields, through the revolving galaxies, And calls out, protests, screams.