Social Criticism Begins With Grammar And The

Mineral Cactai, Quicksilver Lizards In The Adobe Walls, The Bird That Punctures Space, Thirst, Tedium, Clouds Of Dust, Impalpable Epiphanies Of Wind. The Pines Taught Me To Talk To Myself. In That Garden I Learnedto Send Myself Off. Later There Were No Gardens.

Death Is The Mother Of Forms.

Poetry, In The Past, Was The Center Of Our Society, But With Modernity It Has Retreated To The Outskirts. I Think The Exile Of Poetry Is Also The Exile Of The Best Of Humankind.

It Is Not Proper To Project Our Feelings Onto Things Or To Attribute Our Own Sensations And Passions To Them. Can It Also Be Improper To See In Them A Guide, A Way Of Life? To Learn The Art Of Remaining Motionless Amid The Agitation Of The Whirlwind, To Learn To Remain Still And To Be As Transparent As This Fixed Light Amid The Frantic Branches This May Be A Program For Life.

The Purpose Of Poetry Is To Restore To Mankind The Possibility To Wonder.