Trafika Europe 7 - Ukrainian Prayer

Faruk Šehić

2007 According to Gargano

W hen Gargano called me, hastily tapping in Morse code on the inside of my skin, I knew it was something serious and his tongue was just itching – he needed to confess. I have to talk to you, town, because you’re always present in my memory, and it is the only paradise from which I can’t be expelled, the poet says. You’re now a phantom town and your name is insignificant. You could also be called Zyx, but that wouldn’t change anything for the better. Your dwellers walk the streets stooped and in constant fear of the

weather’s whims, of the sky that often changes its mood over the decisive days from the end of May to the middle of June. The favourite topic of idle coffee-house creatures, pensioners and young men is death in all its facets. Death comes from above and bears people away regardless of their years. It takes them up to the hanging gardens of heaven, among the concentric circles, thrones, divinities and cherubim, so say the holy books. Death is your most developed industry and here you’re peerless. You’re now a phantom town. As soon as swirling, coal-black clouds darken the horizon, everyone

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