Ah! Mama! I can’t pray anymore and I weep more and more rarely.
But my soul thinks of you, of my thoughts, and my thoughts are consumed in grief.
I don’t ask you to pray for me. You know yourself what sorrows I may have. Tell me, dear mother, from the other world, from Paradise, from the clouds, from wherever you are, does my love console you?
Can my words distill for you a little sweetness, tender and caressing?
— My Life, Marc Chagall
