Here's a little something I wrote as a responce to the war in Iraq (when the agression started). It's not really a story, it's more an impression... I got tones more of this stuff, but I haven't translated it to English yet, so...
Beyond,… the great pond
It falls slowly. I watch it calmly. It’s so small and warm. So colorful and full of life. It falls slowly, or is just my time running differently.
Once I gazed in the morning sky and saw,…
There, on the blueness a line was crossing and now I’m cross at it. From yonder comes a sound I fear.
I was not afraid back then. A kind neighbor looked the same way and said: “It’s a plane.”
No one has that look anymore. A glassy horror in the eyes is voicelessly shouting that it knows all to well what comes on the wings of progress.
It landed. The puddle waved a little and I was a bit closer to it. But here’s another. Just like all before her she’s going the same path. She’s going down under. Full of life it slowly falls into the puddle and I watch her.
Armed with a stick I ran after a bunch of rascals. We were going to the fence, where we thought out trenches. There we placed our neighborhood pride. Some stolen laundry mostly. We never saluted the not quite yet dried just a while ago smelly socks. And yet they were a symbol we struggled for.
Is maybe THIS peace of fabric more noble?
Maybe because the world can place me where I am right now according to it?
How big the puddle has become and getting fuller of life. It flows toward it. To an ordinary puddle.
What life?
So and so many years of grabbing success and sleuthing for meaning - pointlessly.
It’s slowly running out. Drop by drop. Small and red. Full of life – MINE.
And just a pond of blood softened the last hit of the face to the ground.
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