Monologue

Stranger Monologue from To Damascus

From To Damascus by August Strindberg

any · anguished · 33 sec

Three months! Have I been sleeping? Or where have I been? It's autumn. The trees are bare; the clouds look cold. Now it's coming back to me! Can you hear a mill grinding? The sound of a horn? The rushing of a river? A wood whispering--and a woman weeping? You're right. Only there can charity be found. Farewell.

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