We Suffer From An Incurable Malady: Hope.

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

A Person Can Only Be Born In One Place. However, He May Die Several Times Elsewhere: In The Exiles And Prisons, And In A Homeland Transformed By The Occupation And Oppression Into A Nightmare.

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

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

On This Earth There Is That Which Deserves Life.