Poetry Is An Act Of Peace.

Love Is Short, But Forgetting Is Long.

Green Was The Silence, Wet Was The Light, The Month Of June Trembled Like A Butterfly.

Once More I Am The Silent One Who Came Out Of The Distance Wrapped In Cold Rain And Bells: I Owe To Earth's Pure Death The Will To Sprout.

And That's Why I Have To Go Back To So Many Places There To Find Myself And Constantly Examine Myself With No Witness But The Moon And Then Whistle With Joy, Ambling Over Rocks And Clods Of Earth, With No Task But To Live, With No Family But The Road.

Megaphone In Which The Wind Passes Singing.