Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south? Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.

I stood on the balcony dark with mourning... hoping the earth would spread its wings in my uninhabited love.

And I watch my words from a long way off. They are more yours than mine. They climb on my old suffering like ivy.

Do tears not yet spilled wait in small lakes?

You are like night, calmed, constellated. Your silence is star-like, as distant, as true.

A child who does not play is not a child, but the man who doesn't play has lost forever the child who lived in him and who he will miss terribly.

Perhaps this war will pass like the others which divided us leaving us dead, killing us along with the killers but the shame of this time puts its burning fingers to our faces. Who will erase the ruthlessness hidden in innocent blood?