But Silence Is Where Victims Dwell.

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

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.

We Mothers Rock Into The Heart Of The World The Melody Of Peace.

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--