My Homeland Is Not A Suitcase, And

If The Olive Trees Knew The Hands That Planted Them, Their Oil Would Become Tears.

The Days Have Taught You Not To Trust Happiness Because It Hurts When It Deceives.

My Homeland Is Not A Suitcase, And I Am No Traveller

I See What I Want Of Love... I See Horses Making The Meadow Dance, Fifty Guitars Sighing, And A Swarm Of Bees Suckling The Wild Berries, And I Close My Eyes Until I See Our Shadow Behind This Dispossessed Place... I See What I Want Of People: Their Desire To Long For Anything, Their Lateness In Getting To Work And Their Hurry To Return To Their Folk... And Their Need To Say: Good Morning.

We Suffer From An Incurable Malady: Hope.