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

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

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

But silence is where victims dwell.

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

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

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