Bewitched is half of everything.

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

When sleep enters the body like smoke and man journeys into the abyss like an extinguished star that is lighted elsewhere, then all quarrel ceases, overworked nag that has tossed the nightmare grip of its rider.

But silence is where victims dwell.

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

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

When sleep leaves the body like smoke and man, sated with secrets, drives the overworked nag of quarrel out of its stall, then the fire-breathing union begins anew . . .

I think of what my father used to say on every tenth of December, back in my home town, Berlin: Now they celebrate the Nobel ceremony in Stockholm.

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

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