All Has Been Looted, Betrayed, Sold; Black

And This Tenderness Was Not Like That Which A Certain Poet At The Beginning Of The Century Called True And, For Some Reason, Quiet. No, Not At All— It Rang Out, Like The First Waterfall, It Crunched Like The Crust Of Bluish Ice And It Prayed With A Swanlike Voice, And It Broke Down Right Before Our Eyes.

It Was A Time When Only The Dead Smiled, Happy In Their Peace.

No Foreign Sky Protected Me, No Stranger's Wing Shielded My Face. I Stand As Witness To The Common Lot Survivor Of That Time, That Place.

It Is Unbearably Painful For The Soul To Love Silently.

I Am Not One Of Those Who Left The Land To The Mercy Of Its Enemies. Their Flattery Leaves Me Cold, My Songs Are Not For Them To Praise.