To Me, A Fairy Tale Seems To

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 . . .

We Breathed The Air Of Freedom Without Knowing The Language Or Any Person.

World, They Have Taken The Small Children Like Butterflies And Thrown Them, Beating Their Wings, Into The Fire--

Instead Of A Homeland I Hold The Metamorphoses Of The World.

But Silence Is Where Victims Dwell.