A story circulated by his friends holds that a paper was found in his bloody shirt, which contained a last, unfinished, poem. It read: “By my horse / I laid dead on the pavement, homeland slipping away.”
"In translating Derek Walcott / Words stalk / Like egrets do / In his later poems / Where he wanted / To speak of regret"
“One of the trickiest, most mysterious secrets of the Arabic language is the root h-l-m.”
"They were not sieving, / But dancing to the rhythm."