What The Soul Is To The Body,

Let The Earth Look At Me, And Bless Me, For Now I Am Fecund And Sacred, Like The Palms And The Furrows.

I Write Poetry Because I Can’t Disobey The Impulse; It Would Be Like Blocking A Spring That Surges Up In My Throat. For A Long Time I’ve Been The Servant Of The Song That Comes, That Appears And Can’t Be Buried Away. How To Seal Myself Up Now?…it No Longer Matters To Me Who Receives What I Submit. What I Carry Out Is, In That Respect, Greater And Deeper Than I, I Am Merely The Channel.

Let The Radiance Of My Enthusiasms Envelop The Poor Courtyard And The Bare Classroom. Let My Heart Be A Stronger Column And My Goodwill Purer Gold Than The Columns And Gold Of Rich Schools.

Writing Tends To Cheer Me; It Always Soothes My Spirit And Blesses Me With The Gift Of An Innocent, Tender, Childlike Day. It Is The Sensation Of Having Spent A Few Hours In My Homeland, With My Customs, Free Whims, My Total Freedom.

You Shall Create Beauty Not To Excite The Senses But To Give Sustenance To The Soul.