... he is rewarded with a form of eternal childhood, with the bounty and vigilance of the stars, the whole world was his inheritance and he shared it with everyone.

All that I am hangs by a thread tonight

Call me a sinner, Mock me maliciously: I was your insomnia, I was your grief.

It was a time when only the dead smiled, happy in their peace.

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.

Song falls silent, music is dumb, But the air burns with their fragrance, And white winter, on its knees, Observes everything with reverent attention.

As the future ripens in the past, so the past rots in the future -- a terrible festival of dead leaves.