The Child Who Dwells Inside

I Was Left Behind With The Immensity Of Existing Things. A Sponge, Suffering Because It Cannot Saturate Itself; A River, Suffering Because Reflections Of Clouds And Trees Are Not Clouds And Trees.

What Is Poetry Which Does Not Save Nations Or People?

The Voice Of Passion Is Better Than The Voice Of Reason. The Passionless Cannot Change History.

He Returns Years Later, Has No Demands. He Wants Only One, Most Precious Thing: To See, Purely And Simply, Without Name, Without Expectations, Fears, Or Hopes, At The Edge Where There Is No I Or Not-i.

A Weak Human Mercy Walks In The Corridors Of Hospitals And Is Like A Half-thawed Winter.