But Silence Is Where Victims

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--

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

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

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 . . .