Only that land is mine, which dwells in my soul.
Like a native without papers, I walk into it.
It sees my sadness and my loneliness.
It puts me to sleep and covers me with a fragrance-stone.
Orchards blossom within me, my invented flowers,
My own streets.
Only: there are no houses.
They were ruined since my childhood. . .
Their inhabitants stray in my air.
They seek a dwelling؏they live in my soul.
Hence I smile when my sun shines a bit,
Or I cry, like a quiet rain at night.
Once both faces
Were covered with a love-shine
Night and Space. . .
Now I imagine:
Even when I walk back
I go forward to the road of high gates—
Beyond them, wide steppes spread out,
Where exhausted thunders spend the night
And broken lightnings.

Marc Chagall.