Sometimes a piece of sun burned like a coin in my hand.

Perhaps this war will pass like the others which divided us leaving us dead, killing us along with the killers but the shame of this time puts its burning fingers to our faces. Who will erase the ruthlessness hidden in innocent blood?

I spin on the circle of wave upon wave of the sea.

Take bread away from me, if you wish, take air away, but do not take from me your laughter.

Peace goes into the making of a poem as flour goes into the making of bread.

Place gifts of silver in our hands. Give us this day our daily fish.

He who has nothing—it has been said many times—has nothing to lose but his chains.