We hear only our own voices, still echoes returning to our emptiness.
Tell me something only you know and make a new friend.
If you are good, they say you are weak.
If what we think of ourselves were true, the planet would overflow with geniuses.
It is not possible to express the most precious insights, To see all that craves to be seen, To visit even the closest neighbors in the universe, To learn all that needs to be learned, To live without dying, And I am sad about it. But I lived And I am happy about that.
Blind people are the best audience; they will be treated according to the formula; it’s easy to excite them; it’s easy to wake them up from a dream in which they dull, mute and helpless, await excitement – another product of the plastic reality, another star-studded name.
The world of numbers and words is odd. A number is the only word that doesn’t lie and words can be very deceitful; they create the illusion that a large number hides a great word.
There are literary works that speak for themselves and there are writers who boast through work.
A versifier arranges words and rhymes into verses; a poet arranges verses and rhymes into meanings.
In a real poem a sound does not swallow a letter, but a letter swallows a sound.
There are too many literati, yet very few are smart; knowledge is acquired far too easily.
A versifier arranges sounds; a poet arranges meaning in the sounds.
A versifier passes through the sound; sounds go through a poet.
Unwritten words grow out of silence.
A versifier’s poem is born by the sound; a poet’s sound is born by the poem.
There are anonymous poems and poets without poems.
Everything is much easier in the half-blind and half-deaf world of modern giants that seduce processions of the blind into the world of great emptiness. In their sky the stars shine and their names live in the parallel and independently of their work.
Names sound nice because no one peeks behind the cover to see the sad face of a poem crying for meaning, while the name of the creator proudly smiles from the title.
It is easy to arrange the words in a story born out of a dream; for a story without a dream, a story itself is not enough.
Everything passes through the eyes of top bureaucrats who closely watch to ensure that no intruder can enter their ranks and disrupt the order and arrangement of values in which everything is predetermined and where everyone knows their place, everyone’s potential, talent and position in history.
To a versifier, sounds are the means and the aim; a poet travels toward the aim using sounds.