“Before dying I want to share the verses of my soul
With the poor people of this earth,
My verse is light green, a soft whisper
And it is a flaming red, a crimsom flame
My verse is like a wounded deer
Who seeks refuge in the forest.
The solitude of the mountains
please me more than the sea
I grow a white rose
In July just as in January
For the honest friend
Who gives me his open hand"