But Silence Is Where Victims Dwell.

To Me, A Fairy Tale Seems To Have Become Reality.

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.

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 . . .