“nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands”

“(i do not know what it is about you that closesand opens;only something in me understandsthe voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands”

“nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility:whose texture compels me with the colour of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing (i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody,not even the rain, has such small hands-excerpt of #35 from "100 Selected Poems”

“The NobodiesFleas dream of buying themselves a dog, and nobodies dream of escapingpoverty: that one magical day good luck will suddenly rain down onthem---will rain down in buckets. But good luck doesn't rain downyesterday, today, tomorrow, or ever. Good luck doesn't even fall in afine drizzle, no matter how hard the nobodies summon it, even if theirleft hand is tickling, or if they begin the new day with their rightfoot, or start the new year with a change of brooms.The nobodies: nobody's children, owners of nothing. The nobodies: theno ones, the nobodied, running like rabbits, dying through life,screwed every which way.Who are not, but could be.Who don't speak languages, but dialects.Who don't have religions, but superstitions.Who don't create art, but handicrafts.Who don't have culture, but folklore.Who are not human beings, but human resources.Who do not have faces, but arms.Who do not have names, but numbers.Who do not appear in the history of the world, but in the policeblotter of the local paper.The nobodies, who are not worth the bullet that kills them.”

“I must say... that I ruined myself: and that nobody, great or small, can be ruined except by his own hand.”

“When you are small, if you reach out, and nobody takes your hand, you stop reaching out, and reach inside, instead.”