Those night when they said he had died, I thought I would go crazy.
I pulled out my hair, thought to throw out through the window,
to run in front of sniper, because how do I live
without my Ahmo, I thought.
 
Since he moved from here, let rest in peace, I have understood that
the empty bed is the saddest place in the world.
But my bed still smells like him,
just like he is really here, just like he fills up all those small,
insignificant things. It seems that inside those things he is staring at me:
from wooden chibouk, from shavebrush, from swatch which was given
to him from Hepok in a member of twenty years of employment...
Sometimes I catch myself how I speak with all these things which
measure the time since he has gone.
 
Since he has moved from here, I don't go nowhere. The street is full
of soldiers and I looking for my Ahmo in everyone. When I looked
someone who is similar to him, I feel pain in my chest so I go cry
in the middle of the city. Then I hear him, somewhere in me,
how he screams: „Don't do that my Biba, what people would say?
If you want to cry – go home! You can cry there whenever you want.“
 
Three years have passed since he moved, but I constantly hear his voice.
I hear him on the door, how he stops and cough,
and then he desapeares again in the silence of stairways.
I hear him at night, through the storm of his kisses,
how he talks: „They didn't kill me my Biba,
you know, my love, I wouldn't go without you
even in a paradise“.