You will hear thunder and remember me, and think: she wanted storms.
It is unbearably painful for the soul to love silently.
Hands, matches, an ashtray. A ritual beautiful and bitter.
I seem to myself, as in a dream, Am accidental guest in this dreadful body.
The word dropped like a stone on my still living breast. Confess: I was prepared, am somehow ready for the test.
No, not under the vault of another sky, not under the shelter of other wings. I was with my people then, there where my people were doomed to be.