And you became like coffee, in the deliciousness, and the bitterness, and the addiction.
We suffer from an incurable malady: Hope.
And I tell myself, a moon will rise from my darkness.
Nothing is harder on the soul, than the smell of dreams, while they're evaporating.
If you live, live free or die like the trees, standing up.
We are captives of what we love, what we desire, and what we are.
I am from there. I am from here. I am not there and I am not here. I have two names, which meet and part, and I have two languages. I forget which of them I dream in.
The days have taught you not to trust happiness because it hurts when it deceives.
If the Olive Trees knew the hands that planted them, Their Oil would become Tears.
A person can only be born in one place. However, he may die several times elsewhere: in the exiles and prisons, and in a homeland transformed by the occupation and oppression into a nightmare.
Every beautiful poem is an act of resistance.
I wish I were a candle in the darkness.
The Palestinians are the only nation in the world that feels with certainty that today is better than what the days ahead will hold. Tomorrow always heralds a worse situation.
She does not love you. Your metaphors thrill her you are her poet. But that's all there's to it.
On this earth there is that which deserves life.
Exile is more than a geographical concept. You can be an exile in your homeland, in your own house, in a room.
Life defined only as the opposite of death is not life.
Standing here, staying here, permanent here, eternal here, and we have one goal, one, one: to be.
My love, I fear the silence of your hands.
Without hope we are lost.
Where can I free myself of the homeland in my body?
My homeland is not a suitcase, and I am no traveller
I thought poetry could change everything, could change history and could humanize, and I think that the illusion is very necessary to push poets to be involved and to believe, but now I think that poetry changes only the poet.
I don't decide to represent anything except myself. But that self is full of collective memory.
Far away, our dreams have nothing to do with what we do. The wind carries the night, and passes on, aimless.
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