Give me your hand out of the depths sown by your sorrows.

My duty moves along with my song: I am I am not: that is my destiny. I exist not if I do not attend to the pain of those who suffer: they are my pains. For I cannot be without existing for all, for all who are silent and oppressed, I come from the people and I sing for them: my poetry is song and punnishment.

Who do I belong to? How come I mortgaged my being till I don't belong to myself? How come I sold my blood? And who now owns my indecisions, my hands, my private pain, my pride?

Do tears not yet spilled wait in small lakes?

Day-colored wine, night-colored wine, wine with purple feet or wine with topaz blood, wine, starry child of earth.

Someday, somewhere - anywhere, unfailingly, you'll find yourself, and that, and only that, can be the happiest or bitterest hour of your life.

In love, you have loosened yourself like seawater