I went with my very being toward language.
Read! Read all the time, the understanding will come by itself.
Spring: trees flying up to their birds
Only one thing remained reachable, close and secure amid all losses: language. Yes, language. In spite of everything, it remained secure against loss.
Only truthful hands write true poems. I cannot see any basic difference between a handshake and a poem.
Poetry is a sort of homecoming.