One Day, I Will Be A Poet.

If The Olive Trees Knew The Hands That Planted Them, Their Oil Would Become Tears.

Standing Here, Staying Here, Permanent Here, Eternal Here, And We Have One Goal, One, One: To Be.

We Suffer From An Incurable Malady: Hope.

And What I Don't Understand I Grasp It Only When It's Too Late.

I Thought Poetry Could Change Everything, Could Change History And Could Humanize, And I Think That The Illusion Is Very Necessary To Push Poets To Be Involved And To Believe, But Now I Think That Poetry Changes Only The Poet.