I love my poor earth because I have seen no other.
I was stopped in the dense Soviet wood by bandits who called themselves my judges.
My turn shall also come: I sense the spreading of a wing.
Perhaps my whisper was already born before my lips.
Where to start? Everything cracks and shakes, The air trembles with similes, No one world's better than another; the earth moans with metaphors.
Poetry is the plough that turns up time in such a way that the abyssal strata of time, its black earth, appear on the surface.