A ladybug, hidden in my hand, south of my palms flew away. "Kalinka, where is my home?" - I asked, and she gently stroked her wings. And I went to the South to find the thirsty dream sought - in a vague "tomorrow", in a scattered "yesterday" in a rapt memory, in an angry loneliness. More to the south ... But the ground is round. And I'm here again - at the crossroads. And I search again the Lady, and I search again the thirsty way. "Kalinka, where is my house? Where are the heat, the joy? " The Lady's Lady turns around. Her father was screaming for her father.
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