The Poem Is In My Hands, And

Nothing Is Harder On The Soul, Than The Smell Of Dreams, While They're Evaporating.

The Poem Is In My Hands, And Can Run Stories Through Her Hands.

Far Away, Our Dreams Have Nothing To Do With What We Do. The Wind Carries The Night, And Passes On, Aimless.

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

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.