The Poet Is An Untier

My Grief And My Smile Begin In Your Face, My Son.

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.

I Have A Faithful Joy And A Joy That Is Lost. One Is Like A Rose, The Other, A Thorn. The One That Was Stolen I Have Not Lost.

What The Soul Is To The Body, So Is The Artist To His People.

Now I Am Nothing But A Veil; All My Body Is A Veil Beneath Which A Child Sleeps.