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‘A poem is a swallow in flight. You can watch it soar through the infinite sky, you can even feel the wind passing over it’s wings, but you can never catch it, let alone keep it in a cage. Poems belong to no one.’

‘Poverty has a topography all of its own. It rises from the ribs of the earth, stretching its naked limbs against the sky, it’s features dry and gaunt, sore to the touch. Poverty is a nation with no borders, and he is no foreigner in it but a native son.’