“No home anymore. Nowhere to return. My house is a ruin, a cemetery. You may yearn for the grave, but just try living there.”

“I returnedto confirmthere can be no return.”

“My poems are more my silence than my speech. Just as music is a kind of quiet. Sounds are needed only to unveil the various layers of silence.”

“I don’t write poetry when I wish, I write when I can’t, when my larynx is flooded and my throat is shut.”

“Tell me what’s the differencebetween hope and waitingbecause my heart doesn’t knowIt constantly cuts itself on the glass of waitingIt constantly gets lost in the fog of hope”

“The way a source strains toward the light, toward the air. Its laboring work, its effort, its black passageways like despair. That’s the way a poet looks for words. With muscles, gestures.”

“Letters of the condemned. Last words scratched on a cell’s wall. To write like that.”