„All art is a revolt against man’s fate”
In a military wardrobe
a peaceful blue tapestry was hanging
facing the Commander in Chief’s portrait.
Seashore, ripples, raindrops, white clouds.
Two men sat there talking
about girls, cars, dogs and food.
Will there be a war again?
Today I’m just dreaming my life away
sitting for a while in the waiting room,
fighting, forgetting, forgiving, forsaking
Slave enchained in stone,
undefined history beginning,
your words are strangled
dripping like echoless sonatas.
Your Atlas arms bend
under a load heavier than time
rowing in a freedom’s dream
like on a stormy sea.
Your eyes’ arrows aim
directly at the sculptor’s wound
giving you birth in pain,
and now return towards me
from a distant mirror.
Only I can break your chains
in the empty museum hall,
just looking at you,
embracing you with wide-open eyes.