“The poem is in my hands, and can run stories through her hands.”

“My love, I fear the silence of your hands.”

“The poem is neither here nor there, and with a girl's breastit can illuminate the nights.With the glow of an apple it fills two bodies with lightand with a gardenia's breath it can revive a homeland!”

“If the Olive Trees knew the hands that planted them, Their Oil would become Tears.”

“In a world that has no heaven the earth becomes an abyss.And the poem is one of its consolation prizes.One of the qualities of the winds, north or south”

“A poem exists only in the relation between poet and reader. And I'm in need of my readers, except that they never cease to write me as they would wish, turning their reading into another writing that almost rubs out my features. I don't know why my poetry has to be killed on the altar of misunderstanding or the fallacy of ready-made intent. I am not solely a citizen of Palestine, though I am proud of this affiliation and ready to sacrifice my life in defending the radiance of the Palestinian fact, but I also want to take up the history of my people and their struggle from an aesthetic angle that differs from the prevalent and repeatable meanings readily available from an unmediated political reading.”

“Where can I write my latest account of the body's incarnation?It's the end of what was bound to end! Where is that which ends?Where can I free myself of the homeland in my body?”