What do I care, in the dreams and the languor of spring, That my songs do not show me at all? For they are a fragrance, and I am a flint and a fire, I am an answer, they are only a call. But what do I care, for love will be over so soon, Let my heart have its say and my mind stand idly by, For my mind is proud and strong enough to be silent, It is my heart that makes my songs, not I.
Can I ever write, a poem, to both recite - the song of my heart, and to recount - the epic of my might? I doubt... Can I ever compose such verse, in this solid dark, in this dominant night? I doubt... For I happen to be - a heap of cold, discarded ash - concealing the seeds of all revolts - inside. And, I happen to be A peaceful sea - carrying the roars of all storms - underneath its quiet sight. And, I am a frozen lake - hiding the flames of all faiths - beneath its lifeless face. Can I ever write - such poem? Can I ever compose such verse?"Nocturnal" (1955)