I don't feel at home where I am, or where I spend time; only where, beyond counting, there's freedom and calm, that is, waves, that is, space where, when there, you consist of pure freedom, which, seen, turns that Gorgon, the crowd, to stone, to pebblesand sand . . . where life's mean- ing lies buried, that never let one comewithin cannon shot yet. From cloud-coveredwells untold pour color and light, a fete of cupids and Ledas in gold. That is, silk and honey and sheen. That is, boon and quiver and call. That is, all that lives to be free, needing no words at all. Regina Derieva, translated by Alan Shaw