I wanted to write the most beautiful poem but that is impossible; the world has written its own.

They blossomed, they did not talk about blossoming.

We will go far away, to nowhere, to conquer, to fertilize until we become tired. Then we will stop and there will be our home.

Dreams are our only geography—our native land.

Teaching others, he corrected himself.

A word into the silence thrown always finds its echo somewhere where silence opens hidden lexicons.

The same word we love and hate, leaves in different directions, taking different paths.