World, they have taken the small children like butterflies and thrown them, beating their wings, into the fire--

But silence is where victims dwell.

Instead of a homeland I hold the metamorphoses of the world.

We breathed the air of freedom without knowing the language or any person.

We mothers rock into the heart of the world the melody of peace.

World, they have taken the small children like butterflies and thrown them, beating their wings, into the fire--

To me, a fairy tale seems to have become reality.