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

The heart bleeds dark.
Death is a journey home.

It is seen that the loveliest girls have begun
To lower their eyes

Ah
Mother, the dead
Mother, the dead are deafening now.

        Aiee, father of mine, father of mine,
        What are these shouts in the rain, these voices in the air?

“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.