Language Is The Only Homeland.

Even If That Is So, There Will Remain A Word Wakened By Lips That Perish, A Tireless Messenger Who Runs And Runs Through Interstellar Fields, Through The Revolving Galaxies, And Calls Out, Protests, Screams.

He Returns Years Later, Has No Demands. He Wants Only One, Most Precious Thing: To See, Purely And Simply, Without Name, Without Expectations, Fears, Or Hopes, At The Edge Where There Is No I Or Not-i.

It Is Sweet To Think I Was A Companion In An Expedition That Never Ends

It Is Impossible To Communicate To People Who Have Not Experienced It The Undefinable Menace Of Total Rationalism.

Every Poet Depends Upon Generations Who Wrote In His Native Tongue; He Inherits Styles And Forms Elaborated By Those Who Lived Before Him. At The Same Time, Though, He Feels That Those Old Means Of Expression Are Not Adequate To His Own Experience.