Trafika Europe 14 - Italian Piazza

Günther Kaip

fallen asleep. In the morning, we repeat the first steps the way we’ve been taught the previous day. Time and place play no role in this, rain or scorching shine—if it rains in the mornings, for instance, the silence tastes of raspberries, in the blazing noon sun of rust, and under overcast afternoon skies of clear, cool water. It ’s easy for us to come to terms with these constant changes of taste, it ’s fine if everything changes, will never be the same. We’ll get there, one step at a time, each one leading us further into the great silence. At first light, the trees grow dark and we see their annual rings shine through the bark. It ’s quiet, as if every sound had solidified. On the horizon, the left- behind vaults of the night ignite, the darkness drags its last shadows through the snow-covered landscape. We close our eyes and listen to the voices from our dreams, hear them saying that it ’s not all over, that our bodies, now plowing through the snow up to their hips, are also of the world, that where reality and deception ally, all around weightless things create themselves, travel the world silently and volubly. Blessed is the one they linger with and accompany for part of the journey. OF THINGS

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