We suffer from an incurable malady: Hope.

Far away, our dreams have nothing to do with what we do. The wind carries the night, and passes on, aimless.

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

My homeland is not a suitcase, and I am no traveller

I have learned and dismantled all the words in order to draw from them a single word: Home.

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.

Poetry is perhaps what teaches us to nurture the charming illusion: how to be reborn out of ourselves over and over again, and use words to construct a better world, a fictitious world that enables us to sign a pact for a permanent and comprehensive peace ... with life.