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.
I am not my own friend.Time cuts me in two.
The child who dwells inside us trusts that there are wise men somewhere who know the truth.
Poetry is a dividend from what you know and what you are.
It is sweet to think I was a companion in an expedition that never ends
What is poetry which does not save nations or people?