Against barbarity, poetry can resist only by confirming its attachment to human fragility like a blade of grass growing on a wall while armies march by.

I see what I want of Love... I see horses making the meadow dance, fifty guitars sighing, and a swarm of bees suckling the wild berries, and I close my eyes until I see our shadow behind this dispossessed place... I see what I want of people: their desire to long for anything, their lateness in getting to work and their hurry to return to their folk... and their need to say: Good Morning.

When a writer declares that his first book is his best, that is bad. I progress successively from book to book.

I wish I were a candle in the darkness.

... For me it is essential, essential for the poet to have a new toast, new songs.

Where can I free myself of the homeland in my body?

The metaphor for Palestine is stronger than the Palestine of reality.