Call me a sinner, Mock me maliciously: I was your insomnia, I was your grief.
You will hear thunder and remember me, and think: she wanted storms.
Your voice is wild and simple. You are untranslatable Into any one tongue.
And it seemed to me that there were fires Flying till dawn without number And I never found out things-those Strange eyes of his-what colour? Everything trembling and singing and Were you my enemy or my friend, Winter was it or summer?
You do not know just what you've been forgiven.
I should be proud to have my memory graced, but only if the monument be placed... here, where I endured three hundred hours in line before the implacable iron bars.