 Luckily I'm not an intellectual, I'm a poet. Wonderful. I have two things. Well, maybe more than that. The first thing is a political thing. I come from Poland and you remember this, the beautiful solidarity movement who created some new, a real solidarity among the oppressed ones which was a beautiful human energy in it. And it created a democratic state after 1989 which was not flourishing but building its own future and relying on law. And now some of these same people from the solidarity movement have created a government which denies the achievements of solidarity and which goes against the law. And these are the same people. It's not people from the planet Mars, Venus and Mars. They're from the same movement. So it's a deeply disturbing thing that some mechanism of envy, of desire, of political ambition are pushing them to these ruthless actions. The good thing is that there's a very strong resistance. We have a civil society which is not capitulating. So the thing is not over. I'm pessimistic but optimistic as well. But I'm here not as a politician, I guess, but as a poet, right? And Rob wanted me to say something about the beauty, the art. And I feel a little bit like someone coming from distant provinces because you talk about power and politics and poetry has no power at all. Very few people read poems nowadays. And yet it is a kind of secret power. You could define poetry as the revenge of the introverts. We introverts, we have our secret world. We listen to music. We read poems and we read philosophy. We have no institutions. We live outside the institution. So I won't help you here. I feel like in the Russian literature there was a notion of an unnecessary human being. The representatives of the Russian intelligentsia were defined by Turgenev and by other writers as unnecessary people. Self-ironic description. These people are not producing any wealth. Later, unfortunately, they produced the Soviet system. And the revolution. But poetry and art, I mean, it doesn't make sense to speak separately about poetry together with arts, with music. There is kind of, as you say, a repository of some lucidity. Poetry gives us moments of lucidity. Poets are different from storytellers. We don't tell lyric poets, don't tell stories. We react to moments of lucidity. A poem, a good poem, is a record of a moment of lucidity. There's no story in it. There's no lesson. There's no moral lesson. But the lucidity itself is a value. Because for a moment we see better. We understand better. And this is what means to be human, to have these moments of lucidity. So please tell, let poets live. I started this morning with telling you about the drop of wine. In the ocean, which can transform the ocean, one drop of wine was published in the New Yorker in the week right after 9-11. And it was a poem. It was a poem by our friend Adam Szagiecki. And many New Yorkers now know this poem by heart because it was for them that drop of wine that transformed the experience. And I've asked Adam to read it for us at the end of this conference. Please, Adam. Try to praise the mutilated world. Remember June's long days and wild strawberries drops of rose wine. The nettles that methodically overgrow the abandoned homesteads of exiles. You must praise the mutilated world. You watched the stylish yachts and ships. One of them had a long trip before it, while salty oblivion awaited others. You've seen the refugees heading nowhere. You've heard the executioners sing joyfully. You have to praise the mutilated world. Remember the moments when we were together in a white room and the curtain flattered. Return and thought to the concert where music flared. You gathered acorns in the park in autumn and leaves eddied over the earth's scars. Praise the mutilated world a grey feather, a thrash lost and the gentle light that strays and vanishes and returns.