You who think of us: they lived only in delusion... Know that we the People of the Book, will never die!

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

A true opium of the people is a belief in nothingness after death.

Human reason is beautiful and invincible. No bars, no barbed wire, no pulping of books, No sentence of banishment can prevail against it. It puts what should be above things as they are. It does not know Jew from Greek nor slave from master.

Poetry is news brought to the mountains by a unicorn and an echo.

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.

For a country without a past is nothing, a word That, hardly spoken, loses its meaning, A perishable wall destroyed by flame, An echo of animal emotions.