There are two languages: one as things seem to us and the other of knowledge.

Here (Jerusalem), tears do not weaken the eyes, they only polish and shine the hardness of faces like stone.

Even if a poet writes about sitting in a glass house drinking tea, it reflects politics.

The soul inside me is the last foreign language I'm learning.

From the place where we are right, flowers will not grow in the spring.

Every intelligent person, whether hes an artist or not - a mathematician, a doctor, a scientist - possesses a poetic way of seeing and describing the world.

And as we stray further from love, we multiply the words. Had we remained together we could have become a silence.