Kazadu Kadso Katza

They dream in Kazadu where the mists roll down from the mountain peaks like a cataract. The ever-falling rain hardly rises above a drizzle, and the calm, dark sea ripples with a thousand tiny waves. I would return to Kazadu and seek shelter from its dreary, drizzling storm. I would find again that little hut where I once lay burning with fever. The mists beaded up and rolled down the eaves, and I was left alone to contemplate the gentle music. The nurse never spoke to me; never I to her, though she was like an angel, an angel weeping.