At some point one of them must surely have sung one of the perennial favorites about the fragility of flowers, the fleeting nature of earthly joys. Such a song would have flowed easily from the heart of a woman taken from the land of her birth to serve others until her death: My heart is angry. We are not born twice, not engendered twice. Instead we leave this earth forever. We are in the presence of this company but a moment! It can never be—I will never be happy, never be content. Where does my heart live? Where is my home? Where does my house lie? I suffer on this earth. The singer’s next
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