Without Hope We Are Lost.

Exile Is More Than A Geographical Concept. You Can Be An Exile In Your Homeland, In Your Own House, In A Room.

We Suffer From An Incurable Malady: Hope.

To Be Under Occupation, To Be Under Siege, Is Not A Good Inspiration For Poetry.

I See What I Want Of Love... I See Horses Making The Meadow Dance, Fifty Guitars Sighing, And A Swarm Of Bees Suckling The Wild Berries, And I Close My Eyes Until I See Our Shadow Behind This Dispossessed Place... I See What I Want Of People: Their Desire To Long For Anything, Their Lateness In Getting To Work And Their Hurry To Return To Their Folk... And Their Need To Say: Good Morning.

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