Trafika Europe 13 - Russian Ballet

The Last Magog

was the one thing always on our minds. When? their hands raised to the skies, our young people impatiently awaited. When? our mature men asked. When already? our elders hopelessly whispered. In perpetuity this “when?” hung over our nation like some dull, sickening hum, or heavy rain clouds that never spill one drop. Always, one person could be found who would utter with certainty: “It will come soon”. By custom, only the shamans were permitted to answer this way. But sometimes, even a mother, rocking her infant in the cradle would calm him by saying: “Don’t cry, little one. Don’t cry. Soon. It will come soon!” And the child, for a time, would be silent, so that, after many years, as an old man, he would choke back on that cursed question for all time to come. Once every while, some madman with eyes agog, would run out onto the town square and scream:

The trumpet! The trumpet! And everyone would ask him: Where is it? What trumpet? The Trumpet?

And he would continue howling, “I hear the trumpet! Everyone must gather as one; the time has come!” What could one say in response to him? The man thought he had heard something, his ears were ringing, so what? And they would all disperse, laughing while he remained in the square, looking around himself, stunned.


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