I wake every morning into a circus of worries— what doom will this country birth today? and it's just what it's; my country is a museum for grief. I want to language the litany of joy in every poem my pen pukes but, how do you write about a substance too inexistent? You lay your words as heralds on the body of a paper, and you end with a note which tells, this piece of art is absolutely a fiction. Still, there is something about this fiction— a reader, certainly from a different country will find his universe in your work : say his leaders aren't kleptomaniac say the cops don't whistle a requiem with their guns. he'll scream, this is my country! In this, you know your country denies you of marigolds.