It is hard to understand the life of the poor when you yourself never experienced the poverty that you have to share with your children, their eyes, sickness, dreams.

How many of us teach our own children to be dignified, free? How many of us knowingly teach them to be poor? How many dignified, free men does our society, our world need?...

Life – a sort of a plate of real-imaginary from which we nibble together with the birds of light and darkness, with the poor and well-to-do of the world at grains of to be once rough (like sharp stones), other times more like the pulp of pomegranates and ripe figs; stairs I have to climb in myself and climb down... to sometimes walk along the roads of infinity, other times, how many, to stop before the first step, waiting for the path home...

The one who has children has branches – cannot fit in a sole waiting, a single silence.

Does it matter if you were rich or starved when you died? It does: the worms will swear at you, and the bacteria for being too acidic, or too scrawny, and, of course, your descendants if they are profiteers, if you haven't left them enough/anything.

Our arms carry our kids forever – they are our only living fruit (even when we are no more or when they are no more).