You ask me: how do you write? Do the birds know How their wings and feathers grow? Does a baby realise How sleep seals his little eyes? And when the skies start to rain Do the droplets know their terrain? Do you know why the heart of the river swells When the sun between her arms dwells? I do not know how I write I do not know how the anguish of my pen Reaches the point of eruption, now and then. I swear by your sad-looking eyes The only thing I realise Is that my heart does not cease To suffer from an eternal disease Of which the words are only a symptom: It is the love of freedom! I do not know what sequence nebulous letters will take What shades of meaning will be born, what rust will break, Which phrases smile, what characters weep, what sounds ring, And what kind of melodies The nightingale of my heart will sing. The only thing I know is that my heart is full Of waves of immortal feelings, Of hopes and aspirations, which, I can tell, For the sake of my people And generations to come Will challenge the mountains of hell. I swear by your sad eyes I do not know How the cataracts of my feelings flow? The only thing I know for sure Is that deep, deep in my heart, subconscious, without knowledge, I worship the words of my native language.