“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”

“I’ve learned to value failed conversations, missed connections, confusions. What remains is what’s unsaid, what’s underneath. Understanding on another level of being.”

“Where your pain is, there your heart lies also.”

“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.”

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

“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.”