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Faruk Šehić
intestines were full of soil. Its
odour was strongly arousing.
Grandma Delva’s plants were
the only things stronger
than the war. The suburb
of Žitarnica diminished like
everything else after the
battle to win back the town.
The way unknown plants
grow at right angles out of
the walls is moving. Here,
where life has been scorched,
there is fertile ground for new
growth. Those rooms with
neither floor nor ceiling can
be launch pads for soaring up
into the sky. Everything that
was once in the house has
done exactly that. Blackened
and heavy from the smoke
and fire, gasping for air, they
found their way upwards.
The rooms’ coolness and
darkness, the Bosnian carpets,
ottomans, porcelain, crystal
glasses, vases and cutlery,
the tin woodstove, the light
fixtures and the stone from
Mars, or rather the moon, are
now all immortal refugees.
Grandma and Grandfather
are at the town cemetery in
Lipik, alongside each other.
Their souls have entered the
map of stellar pathways. On
evenings when the Leonid
meteor showers fall, refugees
returning to their earthly
houses are skilfully concealed
among them. Life is repeated
in all its simplicity, full of little
habits and human rituals.
‘May thunder singe your
socks!’ and ‘Damn and deuce
you!’ can be heard between
the meteors that burn up in
the atmosphere.
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