Trafika Europe 12 - French Bon-Bons
A yellow butterfly perches on the tip of her shoe. We seem to be only a few words apart. I raise my head. She looks at my face as if she never knew me at all… as if she doesn’t recognize me. Her face reflects the spirit of whiteness in this place. I shiver. The hope inside me gradually vanishes before her eyes. An abyss flings us apart. A howl rises and the ground begins to shake. Heaven and earth tremble. I think that I’m shouting, but nobody turns to see. Nobody hears! I lower my eyes to the ground. The voice behind me has already died away. Because her lips are sealed in silence. I have a sinking feeling as I think of that man suffering under the ground. The man who never admitted being mad, going mad, just like….
I kneel down, my soul covered by his soil.
Don’t we, I say, don’t we ultimately all bear the spirit of God?
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