TE20 Migrant Mosaics

Songs for 3:45 am

Monologue For Dad

Father, your son loves you, truly loves you. Like an invalid and a bed, some kind of force holds you together, better put: gravity, perhaps time. But time is a spilled pint of water, mud survives it, thirst—no one’s fault. It’s shamefully simple. Just saying nothings instead of something concrete, while balding like you. He loves you, Father, like an oil lamp left on, you burn inside him. An orphaned thing. How easy it would be to say: look, what is that, right at your eye level—you’re a bit shorter. After all, a heart and a fist are similar in shape. Like olive trees and silence. He would only ask, if he ever would, like this, so you wouldn’t understand, because you don’t speak English: “Why have you forsaken me?”

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