No only do I hate the cells of a prison, but even those of art, where few stay or just alone, I am for the clarity without shadows of the sun to the zenith point, that hides nothing of good and evil. If poetry bears this great light, then it is true poetry.
The most beautiful sea hasn't been crossed yet.
The most beautiful child hasn't grown up yet.
Our most beautiful days we haven't seen yet.
And the most beautiful words I wanted to tell you I haven't said yet...
If half my heart is here, doctor,
the other half is in China
with the army flowing toward the Yellow River.
And, every morning, doctor,
every morning at sunrise
my heart is shot in Greece.
And every night, doctor, when the prisoners are asleep
and the infirmary is deserted,
my heart stops at a run-down old house in Istanbul.
And then after ten years
all I have to offer my poor people is this apple in my hand,
doctor, one read apple: my heart.
And that, doctor, that is the reason
for this angina pectoris
not nicotine, prison, or arteriosclerosis.
I look at the night through the bars,
and despite the weight on my chest
my heart still beats with the most distant stars.