The train leaves us at the grand canal of an icy and majestic city. Ah, the birds will fly once more across this winter and the price of the pale nights, moonless. I hear you whistling a song I wrote, and do not suffer. Suffering would distract me from this place where there are no names for us. I leave you, drowsy woman, in a hotel that is a ship and walk away thinking of our future home, that island that does not exist yet, that promise of fresh depradation. It isn't always easy to understand why we are fleeing. Our country abandoned us some time ago with a few pangs and a fear of being nothing without them. The city where you are now sleeping rocks like a lament, thuds against the desolate wall of docks. I begin to undress in a cage sudden with blossom. I love you. We are at rest. It is Stockholm who travels.