But silence is where victims dwell.
Instead of a homeland I hold the metamorphoses of the world.
We mothers rock into the heart of the world the melody of peace.
World, they have taken the small children like butterflies and thrown them, beating their wings, into the fire--
We breathed the air of freedom without knowing the language or any person.
To me, a fairy tale seems to have become reality.
When sleep enters the body like smoke
and man journeys into the abyss
like an extinguished star that is lighted elsewhere,
then all quarrel ceases,
overworked nag that has tossed the nightmare grip
of its rider.
When sleep leaves the body like smoke and man, sated with secrets, drives the overworked nag of quarrel out of its stall, then the fire-breathing union begins anew . . .
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