On This Earth There Is That Which

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

Against Barbarity, Poetry Can Resist Only By Confirming Its Attachment To Human Fragility Like A Blade Of Grass Growing On A Wall While Armies March By.

I Love Women Whose Hidden Desires Make Horses Put An End To Their Lives At The Threshold

... For Me It Is Essential, Essential For The Poet To Have A New Toast, New Songs.

I Don't Decide To Represent Anything Except Myself. But That Self Is Full Of Collective Memory.