The gray bird does not sit on the tall dry tree, the red fox is gone, the bulimic night will soon give way to the

Countries at war, The sound of shooting from afar, Little children cry out, Women scream and shout, Rivers of blood that run, They know it

Hear the tale of Bol-Ala Who in his whole life Never tasted fish or meat Nor to men brought strife Illness threatening his being His

In helpless rage, a child is born, ….Violently thrust from warm embrace. In terror and pain, a child is born, ….Shocked by rough and cold

I run from you I run from me I run from the person I no longer want to be I run from the past I