Now I know what your house looks like, covered with twilight and frightening shadows; I know how freedom smells: sweet, to the point of dizziness and pain under the ribs; I know that worse than the cold of the night is only the approaching rustles and the noise of your steps, creeping, cautious, and also your quiet voice with half tones of a smile. It still sounds there, among the intertwined trees, and I freeze, looking at the supper lying on the plate. The hand holding the fork begins to tremble a little from the tension accumulating in the weakened muscles, and a drop of sweat rolls down the temple,...