Poetry flies away in the night sky, try as I might, I cannot touch them. Poetry is mystery itself!
Like morning dew, poems cling drop by drop to blades of grass; I can see them, feel them, but cannot grasp them.
Poetry has no parents, no children; but there is a flock of birds that lives in poetry's name. Poetry has no house, no family, no hearth—only a small sea and a sky.
Poetry has no relatives, no friends, no guardians. Poetry has only countless lovers.
Poetry has no money, no happiness, no extravagant luxuries. Poetry has only heart-burning sorrow and the strength to endure endless neglect.
Poetry has no address where letters can be sent. A dustbin is poetry's only refuge.
Poetry has no real bond with daylight, but pitch-black night and poetry are like kindred souls!
People love poetry, yet despise the poet, praise poetry to the skies, yet scorn the poet.
Hundreds of poems have been written about martyrs, yet how many poets have become martyrs writing poetry—that news is utterly unnecessary to us.
Though poet and poetry live together, they don't know how to love, though they share the same bed, neither can love the other.
The poet sees his own writing through other people's eyes. Then it begins to seem like bad poetry to him, and he tears it up, shreds it to pieces. Yet seen through his own eyes, not a single letter of his own writing could be thrown away.
No one stands beside poetry, not even the poet himself...no.