Look at my past; the walls grow taller.
I see a broken heart. Why?
Is that the sound of a small caged dove singing into the stifled air?
The cold of winter swirls around.
Many steps are taken through piles of snow.
There is a masque, open, with painted whitewashed walls, connected to the small well below its stone steps.
I hear. I still hear my mother behind me: \'Look for the path with softer steps.\' Why is it too close? Why can I hear the clashing sound of a butcher\'s knife on the fresh skin of a baby lamb?
Rescue my thoughts! I shout! Was my birthplace a sanctuary, or do I imagine it with my softer, childish heart?!