And I tell myself, a moon will rise from my darkness.

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

I believe in the power of poetry, which gives me reasons to look ahead and identify a glint of light.

Without hope we are lost.

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

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.

We suffer from an incurable malady: Hope.