I have never thought of my life as divided between poetry and politics.

At night I dream that you and I are two plants that grew together, roots entwined, and that you know the earth and the rain like my mouth, since we are made of earth and rain.

And what importance do I have in the courtroom of oblivion?

I had no more alphabet than the journeying of the swallows, the pure and tiny water of the small, fiery bird that dances rising from the pollen.

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

Where were you then? Who else was there? Saying what? Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly when I am sad and feel you are far away?

A book, a book full of human touches, of shirts, a book without loneliness, with men and tools, a book is victory.