Far away, our dreams have nothing to do with what we do. The wind carries the night, and passes on, aimless.
We are captives of what we love, what we desire, and what we are.
On this earth there is that which deserves life.
I want to find a language that transforms language itself into steel for the spirit--a language to use against these sparkling insects, these jets.
The poem is in my hands, and can run stories through her hands.
To be under occupation, to be under siege, is not a good inspiration for poetry.