“What happened to poetry in the twentieth century was that it began to be written for the page.”

        Aiee, father of mine, father of mine,
        What are these shouts in the rain, these voices in the air?
        The petal is ripped from the flower, the branch from the tree.

“What I am is not important, whether I live or die —
          It is the same for me, the same for you.
What we do is important. This is what I have learnt.