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After every war someone must clean up. No sort of orderliness happens by itself. Someone has to push the rubble to the side of the roads so that the wagons full of corpses can get through. Someone has to wade through the slime and ashes, the couch springs, the glass splinters and bloody rags. Someone has to drag in a beam to support a wall, someone must glaze a window and hang the door on hinges. This is not photogenic and takes years. All the cameras have already driven off to another war. The bridges have to be built again and the station, too. Sleeves will be in tatters from being rolled up. |
Someone with mop in hand still remembers how it was. Someone is listening, nodding with a head not torn off. But already people are beginning to congregate, who will be bored by all this. From time to time someone must still dig up a rusted argument from underneath a bush and haul it to the garbage dump. Those who knew what this was all about must make way for those who know little. And less than little. And finally as much as nothing. In the grass, which has grown over the causes and effects, someone must lie with an stalk of grass in his teeth and gaze at the clouds. |