Trafika Europe 1 - Northern Idyll


ORDS ARE NOT LIFELESS ROCK or gnawed and wind-whitened bones up in the mountains. Even the most mundane of them can grow

distant over time and transform into museums that house the past, what is gone and will never return. Meadows, manured hayfields, we’re moved to tears by these words, something snaps within us, as when we unexpectedly come across old photos and see faces long since lost in the earth, or the sea. Where are the meadows?, and we recall tranquil summer mornings, so still and deep that we could nearly hear God, but we also recall the toil, the wet feet, the wet grass, newly mown, how tremendously we recall the fatigue, we recall what’s gone and will never return, recall so poignantly that we were once alive, that we could once hold hands, that there were once childish questions. Once we were alive, once had names and they were sometimes spoken in such a way that the deserts of life began to flourish with green. Once we were alive, but not any longer, what surrounds us is called death. Where are the meadows? •


And how does it beat?


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