All of us, in the midst of the shots that could be heard at the gates of the town, the thump of rubber stamps that beat the rhythm of our lives, or our deaths, in the midst of fires and filing cards, terror and formalities, destined for an ignominious-but registered-death, amid horrifying smoke and the tranquil notes of ambulances, we ate the same bread of exile, waiting (though we did not know it) for the same devastating reunion and the same devastating peace.
Guztiok hiriko ateetan durunditzen zuten tiro-hotsen erdian, gure bizitza edo gure heriotzak azpimarratzen zituzten tanpoi kolpeen erdian, sute eta fitxen, izuaren eta formalitateen erdian, heriotza laidogarri baina erregistratu batera agindurik, ke beldurgarri eta anbulantzien sirena-hots lasaien artean, erbesteratze ogi bereaz elikatzen ginen, jakin gabe elkartze eta bake asaldagarri beraren esperoan.