We Suffer From An Incurable Malady: Hope.

We Are Captives, Even If Our Wheat Grows Over The Fences/ And Swallows Rise From Our Broken Chains./ We Are Captives Of What We Love, What We Desire, And What We Are.

She Does Not Love You. Your Metaphors Thrill Her You Are Her Poet. But That's All There's To It.

Poetry And Beauty Are Always Making Peace. When You Read Something Beautiful You Find Coexistence; It Breaks Walls Down.

The Importance Of Poetry Is Not Measured, Finally, By What The Poet Says But By How He Says It.

The Metaphor For Palestine Is Stronger Than The Palestine Of Reality.