When you still had a name, you let the ice bite into the bedrock and spit out stones here and there, to the moor and maternity ward. For you so loved me, the world, that the stone carried me like a cat carries her kitten by the scruff of its neck and lets the kitten win in wrestling like a good dam or an angel, and still, in your great love you wouldn't let me go to school naked, and I pulled on the light and dark like long johns. I've slept soundly at night, but now that the dark has learned to prey and eaten himself so fat he can't even wag his tail, you ask me where I am, and with aching shoulders, with a stone as my pillow, I open my eyes on the moor, where birds nest, and I no longer have a name.

Translation by Sarka Hantula