We Breathed The Air Of Freedom Without

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

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

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

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 . . .

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