THE BRAILLE OF DISASTER

700 years of stupidity will pass, I tell you
700 years will go by
and our burned down city, with her huge broken cement bones
and her twisted opened wounded legs,
will wake up again.
700 years of death and not even one guest –

Wake up, my city. wake up.
Hundred and thousand of years
and not even one guest.
But now, wake up, my city! Look up!
Shadows moving on the ground,
people are coming.

A million years we were sleeping here,
but now some guests have arrived
and they didn’t come for the Hummus this time,
and they didn’t come for the gay clubs or the sea shore this time.
They are here for us.
Today,
they came for us.
They followed our tracks, Archeologists,
they digged within our traces, Coroners,
Gravediggers.

And they will enter the city and open the locked gates,
they will move their fingers on the smashed concrete
and conclude everything that had happened to us.
They will rummage with their soft long hands in the torn up rectums of our apartment-buildings,
they will dive in the sea and find the blind rotting boats that sank on their way out.

Some day they’ll come a long,
the men I love, the women,
and they will move their fingers softly on the destroyed walls
of the room where we used to live.
Day and night the Braille of disaster within every broken wall.
Day and night the Braille of yearning – written in the cracks.

Stones speak louder than testimonies.
Archeologists are poets.
Archeologists and Coroners and Gravediggers and fortune tellers –
they will move their fingers across our memories
as if stroking the back of a cat.
And under their fingers –
all the city’s dead ducks of memory will scream, in shivers.
And under their fingers –
all the city’s horns will lose their sound and breathe heavily.
And under their fingers –
our shoulders – that are only bones now –
will squeak and curse –
but they will touch our war without gloves,
they will touch our war,
and they will touch the walls,
and they will dive into the rivers,
into the rivers,
the rivers of babylon.
Where we sank down.
And how we wept.
When we remembered –

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We were exiled from our language / We are here to talk

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Project: Utopia Europa, Curator: Maxi Obexer, Das Neue Institut für Dramatisches Schreiben, July, 2016
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