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.

When a writer is born into a family, the family is finished.

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.

The child who dwells inside us trusts that there are wise men somewhere who know the truth.

The death of a man is like the fall of a mighty nation That had valiant armies, captains, and prophets, And wealthy ports and ships all over the seas.

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

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