When I Curse Fate, It's Not Me,

Learning To Believe You Are Magnificent. And Gradually To Discover That You Are Not Magnificent. Enough Labor For One Human Life.

We Have Become Indifferent To Content, And React, Not Even To Form, But To Technique, To Technical Efficiency Itself.

Do Not Feel Safe. The Poet Remembers. You Can Kill One, But Another Is Born. The Words Are Written Down, The Deed, The Date.

Two Attributes Of A Poet, Avidity Of The Eye And The Desire To Describe That Which He Sees.

It Isn't Pleasant To Surrender To The Hegemony Of A Nation Which Is Still Wild And Primitive, And To Concede The Absolute Superiority Of Its Customs And Institutions, Science And Technology, Literature And Art. Must One Sacrifice So Much In The Name Of The Unity Of Mankind?