I don't write to you from Greece, nor from Prague, nor from Madrid. I don't write to you from Greece, nor from Prague, nor from Madrid. I write to you from France, from the capital of the Jewish city. It will soon be ten years that I am hidden in a corner, that I am thrown in my room every morning. I don't know what I could have done to be put in the foyer, in the foyer of humans. What am I doing in my pyjamas, turning between these white walls? Who am I calling? Who am I crying for? No one hears me. All my sorrows are lost sorrows. I live, but it doesn't matter anymore, since they have torn me from the living. I don't write to you from Greece, nor from Prague, nor from Madrid. I don't write to you from France, from the capital of the Jewish city. They can steal my skin and strangle me in my bed. I still hear a thousand moans resonating in my insomnia. I still see crowds, barges, hands and doors closed. I can't find the exit anymore. Against what life did I fight to be killed one morning? People said they saw me with a gun in my hand. The air is worth and the earth is a piece. They threw me into this ghetto, a Jewish city, a hill section. I don't write to you from Greece, nor from Prague, nor from Madrid. I don't write to you from France, from the capital of the Jewish city. Yet I had to be a child too. I had to run after dogs and flying deer if I could go back there. But I don't know where, in which suburb, I sowed the stones that would bring me back to this garden. I don't write to you from Greece, nor from Prague, nor from Madrid. I don't write to you from France, from the capital of the Jewish city.