Now No One Will Listen To Songs.

I Seem To Myself, As In A Dream, Am Accidental Guest In This Dreadful Body.

No, Not Under The Vault Of Another Sky, Not Under The Shelter Of Other Wings. I Was With My People Then, There Where My People Were Doomed To Be.

We Thought: We're Poor, We Have Nothing, But When We Started Losing One After The Other So Each Day Became Remembrance Day, We Started Composing Poems About God's Great Generosity And Our Former Riches.

Your Voice Is Wild And Simple. You Are Untranslatable Into Any One Tongue.

Song Falls Silent, Music Is Dumb, But The Air Burns With Their Fragrance, And White Winter, On Its Knees, Observes Everything With Reverent Attention.