only
he
and
you
and
us
, and no one
will ever again
say
I
in your voice.
That too. That, too.)
Just hurry, my boy,
dawn is rising, the magic
soon will melt, so you must love,
and, even if betrayed,
even if you taste the venom
of disdain, love
and be brave, but be cowardly, too,
be everything, touch defeat,
touch failure, hurt someone,
disappoint
and lie.
Quick, my boy, pass through all these,
there is no time to linger,
such illusions are so brief,
but you must touch, caress
a warm body, a woman,
bounteous breasts in your hands,
the head of a newborn child, unborn
to you.
Quick, quick, the first strip
of light—
see the world you never saw: New York,
Paris, Shanghai, so many faces
in this living
world—
No, no, stop—
it’s too late now,
come back
to rest,
quick,
to obscurity,
to oblivion,
just do not see
with my own eyes
what happened
to you.
WALKERS:
Our feet lift slowly
from the earth lightly
lightly we hover
between here and there
between lucidity
and sleep
the thread will soon
unravel
and we will glide
and look
at whatever is there
at whatever we dare
to see
only when walking
in a dream
TOWN CHRONICLER: Sleeping … They’ve been sleeping almost constantly for days, sleeping their minds away. Sleeping and walking, speaking to one another in their dream, each head leaning on another walker’s shoulder. I do not know who carries whom and what force drives them to walk—
DUKE:
Sometimes, alone
in my private chamber,
I take off both shoes and look
at my feet and think
it is
him.
ELDERLY MATH TEACHER:
I hit him. He was
a stubborn boy, and impudent,
with strange opinions
even as a child, and I—spare
the rod, spoil the child—I had to
beat him.
When he raised his hands to protect
his face, I hit him
in the stomach.
WALKING MAN:
But where are you, what are you,
just tell me that, my son.
I ask simply:
Where are you?
Ayeka
?
Or like a pupil before his master
(for that is how I often see
you now),
please teach me—as I not long ago
taught you—
the world and all its secrets.
Forgive me if my question
sounds foolish and insipid, but
I must ask because
it has been eating
at my soul like a disease
these past five years:
What is death, my son?
What
is death?
MIDWIFE:
Great, definitive death,
my girl,
with b-b-boundless power. Eternal,
immortal d-d-death. And yours.
Your single, little death,
inside it.
COBBLER:
Actually, I wanted
to ask, What’s it like,
my girl, when you die?
And how are you there?
And who are you
there?
DUKE:
It is a perplexing thought, my son,
but perhaps you now know
far more than I do?
Perhaps a new and wondrous world
now carries you in flight,
and with a massive flap of wings
it spreads out
its infinity, just as
in our world here it long ago
lavished your soul with its abundance,
your pure, boyish soul. I feel
so young and ignorant before you.
TOWN CHRONICLER: Every so often a tremor passes through them, all of them, one after the other, as though an invisible hand had slid a caress down the spine of the small procession, lingering lightly over the head of each and every one. In their sleep, they straighten up toward it like blind chicks hearing their mother’s voice, and their eyes glow through their lids.
MIDWIFE:
I see her
jumping,
dancing in the kitchen,
before she fell ill,
when she still
had the strength. And her f-f-father,
my man, my love,
my cobbler, kneels before her
and places his hands: shoes for her feet.
COBBLER:
Am I dreaming?
I hear my wife.
I swear
her words are
hardly broken
anymore!
MIDWIFE:
… he walks her
through the house in his
hand-shoes, and laughs
until the roof almost flies off,
and she hugs his neck
and squeals, she has only just
learned how to talk,
you remember,
just beginning to say
her first words,
Dad-dy,
Mom-my,
Lil-li-li-li-Lilli.
COBBLER:
Lilli,
my
Lilli.
WALKERS:
We walk. Impossible
to stop. My
he
and
you
and
us
, and no one
will ever again
say
I
in your voice.
That too. That, too.)
Just hurry, my boy,
dawn is rising, the magic
soon will melt, so you must love,
and, even if betrayed,
even if you taste the venom
of disdain, love
and be brave, but be cowardly, too,
be everything, touch defeat,
touch failure, hurt someone,
disappoint
and lie.
Quick, my boy, pass through all these,
there is no time to linger,
such illusions are so brief,
but you must touch, caress
a warm body, a woman,
bounteous breasts in your hands,
the head of a newborn child, unborn
to you.
Quick, quick, the first strip
of light—
see the world you never saw: New York,
Paris, Shanghai, so many faces
in this living
world—
No, no, stop—
it’s too late now,
come back
to rest,
quick,
to obscurity,
to oblivion,
just do not see
with my own eyes
what happened
to you.
WALKERS:
Our feet lift slowly
from the earth lightly
lightly we hover
between here and there
between lucidity
and sleep
the thread will soon
unravel
and we will glide
and look
at whatever is there
at whatever we dare
to see
only when walking
in a dream
TOWN CHRONICLER: Sleeping … They’ve been sleeping almost constantly for days, sleeping their minds away. Sleeping and walking, speaking to one another in their dream, each head leaning on another walker’s shoulder. I do not know who carries whom and what force drives them to walk—
DUKE:
Sometimes, alone
in my private chamber,
I take off both shoes and look
at my feet and think
it is
him.
ELDERLY MATH TEACHER:
I hit him. He was
a stubborn boy, and impudent,
with strange opinions
even as a child, and I—spare
the rod, spoil the child—I had to
beat him.
When he raised his hands to protect
his face, I hit him
in the stomach.
WALKING MAN:
But where are you, what are you,
just tell me that, my son.
I ask simply:
Where are you?
Ayeka
?
Or like a pupil before his master
(for that is how I often see
you now),
please teach me—as I not long ago
taught you—
the world and all its secrets.
Forgive me if my question
sounds foolish and insipid, but
I must ask because
it has been eating
at my soul like a disease
these past five years:
What is death, my son?
What
is death?
MIDWIFE:
Great, definitive death,
my girl,
with b-b-boundless power. Eternal,
immortal d-d-death. And yours.
Your single, little death,
inside it.
COBBLER:
Actually, I wanted
to ask, What’s it like,
my girl, when you die?
And how are you there?
And who are you
there?
DUKE:
It is a perplexing thought, my son,
but perhaps you now know
far more than I do?
Perhaps a new and wondrous world
now carries you in flight,
and with a massive flap of wings
it spreads out
its infinity, just as
in our world here it long ago
lavished your soul with its abundance,
your pure, boyish soul. I feel
so young and ignorant before you.
TOWN CHRONICLER: Every so often a tremor passes through them, all of them, one after the other, as though an invisible hand had slid a caress down the spine of the small procession, lingering lightly over the head of each and every one. In their sleep, they straighten up toward it like blind chicks hearing their mother’s voice, and their eyes glow through their lids.
MIDWIFE:
I see her
jumping,
dancing in the kitchen,
before she fell ill,
when she still
had the strength. And her f-f-father,
my man, my love,
my cobbler, kneels before her
and places his hands: shoes for her feet.
COBBLER:
Am I dreaming?
I hear my wife.
I swear
her words are
hardly broken
anymore!
MIDWIFE:
… he walks her
through the house in his
hand-shoes, and laughs
until the roof almost flies off,
and she hugs his neck
and squeals, she has only just
learned how to talk,
you remember,
just beginning to say
her first words,
Dad-dy,
Mom-my,
Lil-li-li-li-Lilli.
COBBLER:
Lilli,
my
Lilli.
WALKERS:
We walk. Impossible
to stop. My
Similar Books
