My poems and prose poems are also attempts to find a home, anthologies of existent and non-existent homes. If I were better acquainted with psychoanalysis, I would believe that it comes from the fact that I lost my home as little child and grew up in a flat shared by four or five families in the ruins of Tartu, and in the country at our relatives' homes. But in reality most Estonians are without a home and a homeland. They are emigrants, refugees, persecuted and taken for strangers even in the land that should and could be their homeland. For centuries we have been stepchildren in our father's home, kicked and scorned by a wicked stepmother, mocked and scoffed by her wicked children. It explains a lot, but doesn't explain my passion for trees and stones.