* In Berlin there is the sadness of old murder. In Granada there was the sadness of murdered names, names unable to make up their minds about origins. Silence doesn’t come easy in Spain.
One has to wait, like the wind, for the moment to transform itself into a scream, and silence might then appear for a second: a headless statue without a name. Mirror: [O, I look in this sheltered glass for the figures beside the image: what do I lack? Only that connection to your courage to end life when, for you, there was no more] I, you, and the others like to generalize: To console myself I say — I belong to my head. No: I won’t ask Gods to pray for us like you did.
No, , just like nine months of murder can’t cancel a new-born wind in those wombs that have failed to carry the fractions of your numbered past, among the ones who placed a body in your every thought, and fanned the wrong winds— the ones coming to you in no guises, in no act of the breeze—Schief mit what, what will make you shed blood without any tears? Mirror: [Berlin knows its dead. Without design, I’m lost. Once more.
Did I mention: “without design”? Because without it, I stumble on your Sundays, Berlin, O without design: I’m where the living tend to their dead: “Pflanzenabfälle.” What does it mean to be a found object, in place of the dead, not dying? Because for many, this found cemetery is only a path, for most a shortcut. That way.
Yes. This way. Nein.
Like a new- born wind we know the dead mo.