We were talking, a lot of quiet conversations, when my mother recounted about her father and the village she was born in, and then I told her about the lives of the saints I had read and tried to unravel their life using my imagination; as if what they had suffered already weren't enough, I added more of it on my own, until my mother started weeping.
Then I felt regret, sat on her knees, caressed her hair and consoled her: -"They went to heaven, mother, don't worry, they're strolling under blooming trees, chatting with the angels and have forgotten their sufferings. And every Sunday they put their gold clothing, caps with red tassels and go to pay a visit to God".
Mother then wiped her tears, looked at me as if saying "Really, do you think so?" and she smiled. And the canary, in its cage, listened to us, lifted its throat and sang drunkenly, happy, as if it had left the saints for a moment and came down to earth to spread goodwill among the people.
My mother, the cassie and the canary are inseparably mingled, immortal in my mind; I can no longer smell acacia or hear a canary without having my mother rise from the tomb ~from my gut!~ and to mingle with this scent and the singing canary".
~Nikos Kazantzakis, from "Report to Greco" (translation from the Greek by E.Vosnaki)