Poems have their own fates, like children. You have only to give birth to them.
The times spat at me. I spit back at the times.
The urge to kill, like the urge to beget,
Is blind and sinister. Its craving is set
Today on the flesh of a hare: tomorrow it can
Howl the same way for the flesh of a man.
If you want to change the world's spirit, I will suggest that only poetry can do this.
Not all lines, not all images, survive their season.
Poetry is the only hopeEven if you do not believe it, you have to do it.
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