This Cruel Age Has Deflected Me.

Poems Are My Link With The Times, With The New Life Of My People.

Real Tenderness Can't Be Confused, It's Quiet And Can't Be Heard.

Hands, Matches, An Ashtray. A Ritual Beautiful And Bitter.

Song Falls Silent, Music Is Dumb, But The Air Burns With Their Fragrance, And White Winter, On Its Knees, Observes Everything With Reverent Attention.

I Am Not One Of Those Who Left The Land To The Mercy Of Its Enemies. Their Flattery Leaves Me Cold, My Songs Are Not For Them To Praise.