Our Memory Is Childish And It Saves

Poetry Is A Dividend From What You Know And What You Are.

For A Country Without A Past Is Nothing, A Word That, Hardly Spoken, Loses Its Meaning, A Perishable Wall Destroyed By Flame, An Echo Of Animal Emotions.

It's True That What Is Morbid Is Highly Valued Today, And So You May Think That I Am Only Joking Or That I've Devised Just One More Means Of Praising Art With The Help Of Irony.

Do Not Feel Safe. The Poet Remembers. You Can Kill One, But Another Is Born. The Words Are Written Down, The Deed, The Date.

I Liked Beaches, Swimming Pools, And Clinics For There They Were The Bone Of My Bone, Flesh Of My Flesh. I Pitied Them And Myself, But This Will Not Protect Me. The Word And The Thought Are Over.