When I Curse Fate, It's Not Me,

For A Country Without A Past Is Nothing, A Word That, Hardly Spoken, Loses Its Meaning, A Perishable Wall Destroyed By Flame, An Echo Of Animal Emotions.

From Life, From The Apple Cut By The Flaming Knife, What Grain Will Be Saved? My Son, Believe Me, Nothing Remains, Only Adult Toil, The Furrow Of Fate In The Palm. Only Toil, Nothing More.

Even If That Is So, There Will Remain A Word Wakened By Lips That Perish, A Tireless Messenger Who Runs And Runs Through Interstellar Fields, Through The Revolving Galaxies, And Calls Out, Protests, Screams.

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

I've Always Regretted That I'm Made Of Contradictions. But, If Contradiction Is Impossible To Overcome, We Have To Accept Both Its Ends.