One day in January a tall thin man with long white hair came into our courtyard. He was draped in a green cloak, torn in various places. He turned his face up to our balcony, spread his arms and began to speak with a resonant voice. I was frightened, but Mother explained that the man, a beggar, was reciting something.

‘Reciting?’ I didn’t know the word.

Mother explained what it meant, and I turned back to the beggar.

My Mother’s Eyes
Wild Women, Wild Men