It was not hope that drove me all along. The meager warmth that is like potter's clay at first, then white, then finally like nothing. The washroom-faucet allows me no sleep day and night. There is a draft. Your father has forgotten you.
Girls never do.
Losing the battle is in the fields. Gaining homeland up is in the air. Bird, sun, and birds again. By night only the row of lamps, the yellow wall of mud will glow, beyond the yard, across the trees, a line of candles, the windows, where I used to dwell and dwell no more, the house I lived is in and do not live is in, the roof that held me under its cover. Then you covered me up, my Lord.