My love, I fear the silence of your hands.

I am from there. I am from here. I am not there and I am not here. I have two names, which meet and part, and I have two languages. I forget which of them I dream in.

If the Olive Trees knew the hands that planted them, Their Oil would become Tears.

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.

And what I don't understand I grasp it only when it's too late.

Every beautiful poem is an act of resistance.

I am not a lover of Israel, of course. I have no reason to be. But I don't hate Jews.