‘Why do you still bother listening to the rats in the attic, my dear? They do nothing else than chew on cardboard or old shoes’, but what she really wanted to know, what a life this may be, munching on another’s belongings,
one has never known, doesn’t even know the species of.
Left unattended, where have
these questions come from, why they are destined to fizzle
out into the dark, while they sleep, sleep from
exhaustion, the sleep of a child, perhaps.
All the while one is treated like the victim of a disaster,
re-education for the infants, unavailable,
to those who demanded for an innocent instance,
the impossible rather than the improbable.
Counting sheep, beyond already new-born lambs
in February, what so easily comes to mind when
all sight vanishes ‘I so blindly adore you that it often frightens
me…while I know you have faults
like any other, the many things you do are so close to my own
being that I can’t distinguish anymore what
you like and what I like…they are and maybe have
always been one and the same.’
Fox cubs squeal, far into the distance, quivers rolling off the hills, reticence
in a night is all there is, all there has ever been; silence one’s only consideration, for
it forces to abandon all feeling, to abandon all reason, to abandon one’s Self.