Today I have so much to do: I must kill memory once and for all, I must turn my soul to stone, I must learn to live again. Unless ... Summer's ardent rustling is like a festival outside my window.

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

And you know, I agree to everything: I will condemn, I will forget, I will give comfort to the enemy, Darkness will be light and sin lovely.

You will hear thunder and remember me, and think: she wanted storms.

Hands, matches, an ashtray. A ritual beautiful and bitter.

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.

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.