The triumphs of a mysterious non-meeting are desolate ones; unspoken phrases, silent words.

But here, in the murk of conflagration, where scarcely a friend is left to know we, the survivors, do not flinch from anything, not from a single blow. Surely the reckoning will be made after the passing of this cloud. We are the people without tears, straighter than you ... more proud.

It is unbearably painful for the soul to love silently.

There is a sacred, secret line in loving which attraction and even passion cannot cross.

Sweet to me was not the voice of man, But the wind's voice was understood by me. The burdocks and the nettles fed my soul, But I loved the silver willow best of all.

Real tenderness can't be confused, It's quiet and can't be heard.

We thought: we're poor, we have nothing, but when we started losing one after the other so each day became remembrance day, we started composing poems about God's great generosity and our former riches.