When I Passed The Age Of 50,

Have I Had Two Roads, I Would Have Chosen Their Third.

Poetry Is Perhaps What Teaches Us To Nurture The Charming Illusion: How To Be Reborn Out Of Ourselves Over And Over Again, And Use Words To Construct A Better World, A Fictitious World That Enables Us To Sign A Pact For A Permanent And Comprehensive Peace ... With Life.

History Laughs At Both The Victim And The Aggressor.

I Don't Decide To Represent Anything Except Myself. But That Self Is Full Of Collective Memory.

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