The importance of poetry is not measured, finally, by what the poet says but by how he says it.
My love, I fear the silence of your hands.
I don't decide to represent anything except myself. But that self is full of collective memory.
We suffer from an incurable malady: Hope.
On this earth there is that which deserves life.
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.