The vicissitudes of conscience’s journey on this planet-earth is the only true history of countries; conscience inhales the truth as oxygen- that truth which is a great ocean.

The ocean does not sit at anybody’s feet and bark, the voice of a storm does not know to say yes sir, The Mountain does not kneel down before any body.

I, maybe after all a fistful of earth, but when I lift my pen I have the arrogance of the flag of a nation. I dip my travails in tears and munch them like biscuits.

And unveil the great truth

that a man, who is stronger than life, alone,

can sculpture from word to century.

Cut off my hands, still they will return and join me. In my storms the entire sky is blown away like a scrap of paper. So, now, of what value are those crowds of stars on my path? I only know this much, that human life is an exhibition of beastly forces.

Today my memories are visiting me, filling my journey with breathless winds. I am one who runs in search of storms, wounds and drunkards.

But at the sight of the peaks of people, I melt into a poem and flow onto the paper. An earthquake is born in my language. In the fiery blood flowing in floods from broken hearts of words, human tongues are floating. Sweep off all this rubbish of verbiage of words. Then will appear on the page clearly, my pearl white voice.