Sometimes I feel as if I am read before I write. When I write a poem about my mother, Palestinians think my mother is a symbol for Palestine. But I write as a poet, and my mother is my mother. She's not a symbol.

I am not a lover of Israel, of course. I have no reason to be. But I don't hate Jews.

I've built my homeland, I've even founded my state - in my language.

I never wanted children; maybe I'm afraid of responsibility.

Nothing, nothing justifies terrorism.

The Arabs are ready to accept a strong Israel with nuclear arms - all it has to do is open the gates of its fortress and make peace.

Some people ask, 'How do you attract the young and so many different people when your poetry is complicated and different?' I say, 'My accomplishment is that my readers trust me and accept my suggestions for change.'

I don't decide to represent anything except myself. But that self is full of collective memory.

I want to find a language that transforms language itself into steel for the spirit – a language to use against these sparkling insects, these jets.

We have on this earth what makes life worth living: April’s hesitation, the aroma of bread at dawn, a woman’s point of view about men, the works of Aeschylus, the beginning of love, grass on a stone, mothers living on a flute’s sigh and the invaders’ fear of memories.