The black smoke clouds above the city- tweeting, posting, reporting on the disaster to all of those who escaped on time.
The city is burning, and we are standing all around. The city is being gangbanged, and we are watching.
By now she’s dead. By now she’s probably dead. Yes, My city. She’s dead, and everybody’s dead, lying naked in the streets, and even if you ran away from her, you will always remain dead within her. Even if you thought that you succeeded in escaping from her, you will always remain dead within her. Like a dead fetus within a belly.
How long will a fetus stay alive once its mother is already dead?
Fully alive within a dead body. My city. And me.
And the moment, in which we realize, that we are trapped. On the housetops, and in the prophecy. This moment, when we turn back our heads for one last time. The body is already walking forwards, but the head is turning back. With this moment, we will open our lament. And you, wipe your tears, dear audience. Don’t cry for us tonight.
The glass was broken, we, candies, rolled out, and now we’re here. Between your feet.
All over the world we were scattered. No brothers, no sisters. We are here now. In your streets, in your governmental offices, in your news.
The doors are closed. The past has passed. Our mothers were burnt like witches in the streets, our football teams are out of the league and no eurovision parties for us. Our language lost its sense, and our boats, our journeys, our trains… oh they became symbols in your newspapers, fashionable project material for your political artists, a whole new world of work opportunities for your social workers. You are dealing with our problem, day after day, no doubt about that. Thank you.
Fire. And memories. Our burning past.
But let’s forget about that. Now it’s only us. We. You. This stage. Here is where we meet.
And let’s be honest. We will have to pretend a little, to fake a little, so that it will work.
We – will pretend that we have a clue about you, that we have SOMETHING new to tell you. You – will pretend that you are trying to understand us. Yes. This is the minimum that you can do. To pretend that you tried.
In this way or another – tonight we are selling here all our abandoned belongings. All the things that we left behind when we ran away. And no illusions – we are selling it with tears. And no illusions – we are selling it to you.
Our deserted houses, the objects inside, will become, in 30 minutes or so, your well funded immigrant poetry.
Thank you so much, for allowing us to sign-up for your programs. In our city, you have to hold the city’s flag above your head if you want to apply for a job.
There are no more art projects in my city. The artists and the bees, they were the first to die. The artists, they were shot on the stages in front of the furious crowds, white flags stuck in their rectums.