by Tea Solon she was youngwhen the old worldof her fathersburned to ashtoo young to understandwhy it happened orwho happened butshe remembers the agonyof the collapsethrough her mother’slullaby the trembling voicetrying to mutethe wallow of tearsthe hands that pat andarms that rock herto and fro to sleepwhich force trembles totake a tight gripnone of the birdsor …







