Poetic Knowledge Is Born In The Great

Out Of The Sky, The Birds, The Parrots, The Bells, Silk, Cloth, And Drums, Out Of Sundays Dancing, Children's Words And Love Words, Out Of Love For The Little Fists Of Children, I Will Build A World, My World With Round Shoulders.

I Have A Different Idea Of A Universal. It Is Of A Universal Rich With All That Is Particular, Rich With All The Particulars There Are, The Deepening Of Each Particular, The Coexistence Of Them All.

Poetic Knowledge Is Born In The Great Silence Of Scientific Knowledge.

Africa, Help Me To Go Home, Carry Me Like An Aged Child In Your Arms. Undress Me And Wash Me. Strip Me Of All Of These Garments, Strip Me As A Man Strips Off Dreams When The Dawn Comes. . . .

I Would Rediscover The Secret Of Great Communications And Great Combustions. I Would Say Storm. I Would Say River. I Would Say Tornado. I Would Say Leaf. I Would Say Tree. I Would Be Drenched By All Rains, Moistened By All Dews. I Would Roll Like Frenetic Blood On The Slow Current Of The Eye Of Words Turned Into Mad Horses Into Fresh Children Into Clots Into Curfew Into Vestiges Of Temples Into Precious Stones Remote Enough To Discourage Miners. Whoever Would Not Understand Me Would Not Understand Any Better The Roaring Of A Tiger.