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Between a Mountain and a Sea: Refugees Writing in Wales - online edition - Page III
Published by Hafan Books, Swansea, 2003 ISBN 0–9545147–0–X Editors: Eric Ngalle Charles, Tom Cheesman and Sylvie Hoffmann Online edition at www.hafan.org (October 2004)
All texts © the authors and editors. Not be used without permission from Hafan Books. For details of contributors and translators, see Page I.
Page I - Page II - Part III - Page IV
from Heledd’s Songs
I am called wandering Heledd. Oh God, who has taken My brothers’ horses and their land?
Thin the breeze, thick the misery. The furrows remain; their makers do not. So piteous that those who were are no more.
In the time when they were fair The daughters of Cyndrwyn were loved: Heledd, Gwladus and Gwenddwyn.
I had lovely sisters. I lost them, every one of them: Ffreuer, Meddwyl and Meddlan.
I also had sisters. I lost them all together: Gwledyr, Meisir and Ceinfryd.
Afflicted, Abercuawg
My spirit craves to sit a long time on a hill, Not that I will up and go: My journey now is short, my home desolate.
Piercing the wind in this barren place. The woods dress in summer’s fair colours. I lie feverish today.
Doing nothing, unaccompanied, Unable to get out. The cuckoo is pleased to sing.
In Abercuawg the cuckoos sing On flowering branches. Woe to the listener lying sick.
In Abercuawg the cuckoos sing. To my heart it is wretched That one who heard them now hears nothing.
I hear the cuckoo on an ivy-covered tree And tug at my clothes In grief for all I loved.
High above the great oak I heard birds singing there. Noisy cuckoo, all remember lost loves.
Endless song, full of longings, Leave-takings, plunging like a hawk: The loud cuckoo of Abercuawg.
Noisy the birds, damp the valleys. Moon shines at chill midnight. Sore sickness makes my heart raw.
Noisy the birds, damp the valleys, Long the night. What’s rare is praised, And I deserve the reward of age: sleep.
Noisy the birds, wet the shingle. Leaves fall, the exile’s spirits falter. Tonight I’m sick indeed.
Noisy the birds, wet the shore, Bright the sky, generous the wave. Longing withers the heart.
Noisy the birds, wet the shore, Bright the generous motion of the wave. What the boy loved, the man longs for again.
Noisy the birds on the highlands of Edrywy. Loud the cry of the hounds hunting the moor. Noisy the birds again.
Hilltop hazy; tip of ash-tree slender. Shining waves roll out of estuaries. Laughter is far from my heart.
Today is the end of my month In this abandoned hostel. My heart is raw. Fever has me.
Cattle in the shed, mead in the bowl. Wisdom avoids strife, patiently Forging a bond of understanding.
Cattle in the shed, ale in the bowl. Slippery the paths, fierce the down-pour. Danger at the ford. Treachery in mind.
Treachery’s a mind-made evil. Grief comes with atonement, swapping For a little thing, a great one.
So much wickedness. On Judgment Day Only the true will shine bright.
Cups are lifted, an enemy defeated, Men make merry over ale. The stalks are withered. The cattle in the shed.
I have heard the heavy wave pound Loud between the shingle and the beach. My heart is raw with misery tonight.
The oak-tree tip branches. Bitter tastes the ash. Sweet the cow-parsley root. Laughing the wave. My face reveals my heart’s distress.
The leper was a squire, a bold warrior At a king’s court. May God be kind to the outcast.
Exile
Humberto Gatica
I abandoned my bones in the uncertainty of the airports I get lost in cities under the nightmares of lugubrious hotels Some night somebody dies in my dreams In others I chase my way back to the music of my rains and my broken landscapes
Hamira A. Geedy
Siamak was ready to leave his family. He looked at his brother Mansore and asked: “Don’t you want to come with us?” “No,” Mansore replied, “I love Jaleh. I want to marry her. And someone has to care for our mother and little brother.” Siamak kissed Mansore and went. Mansore wanted to have a child and a good family with his cousin Jaleh. Little Khosrow was only ten. Siamak was with the Peshmerge. He believed in equal pay for Kurdish workers. After the Islamic revolution, the new government was against Kurdish equal pay. Most people in Kurdistan belonged to the Kurdistan Party, opposing the new government. They wanted to tell the new government that Kurdish people were like everybody else in the country. They needed factories, hospitals, schools. They also wanted to speak and study in their own language, as well as the other languages in their country. But the new government refused these requests. The Kurdish people said: We are a rich country, we have petrol and uranium. The benefits should be shared among all the people in the country. But the new government did not accept this. ● One day three years later, Mansore is walking to the city centre to buy dry milk from the pharmacy for his small baby. The special patrol cars of the Pasdars, the government police, can be seen everywhere, driving around looking for people they believe to be against the new government. Mansore is not anxious, because his brother with the P.K. has gone. They all left the city so that the people would not be in danger. They are staying on the mountain. Mansore is happy, because he has a good family. He has a beautiful wife and a lovely little girl, Afsaneh. His only worry is his mother. He knows she prays and cries every night, worrying about her son Siamak. On his way to the pharmacy, Mansore saw his schoolmate, Mahmood. They kissed each other and asked about their lives. “I heard you were married,” said Mahmood, “and it was good news for me. But I have not been able to. I am on the mountain helping the freedom fighters. My mother is sick and I’m on my way to buy a prescription for her.” As they were speaking, suddenly a car stopped near them and four officers got out. They arrested Mahmood and took him into the car. Mansore was stunned. Then two of the men got out of the car again and arrested him too. Before he could say anything, his head was covered by a cloth and his hands tied behind his back. ● One month later, Mansore’s mother was sitting watching tv with her youngest son and her sister-in-law. “Twenty-five days ago I met my son in the prison,” the mother said. “He told me he had never done anything against the new government. They were looking for Mahmood and they were both near the pharmacy. He said to me: ‘I never had any contact with the P.K., just once I gave Mahmood a pair of boots. Mahmood was from a poor family, most of the time his classmates helped him.’” “Don’t worry, mother,” said Khosrow, “Mansore is innocent.” Mother replied: “I told Mansore: Don’t worry, my son, the head of the innocent will go under the gallows-tree, it but won’t go up.” While they were speaking, the normal programme on the tv was stopped. The announcer said: “Hail to the leader of the Islamic revolution! Two criminals arrested by our officials will now speak about their crimes.” Then a mullah came on and said that these two men would speak of their crimes against the Islamic revolution. The tv showed Mansore, but he did not look like the same Mansore. He was thin, dirty, his face full of hair, with small eyes. No one could believe this man was the same Mansore. He said: “I am Mansore. I was with the P.K. I killed many Pasdars and other officials. I destroyed many tanks before the army arrived in Mahabad. I have always fought against the Islamic revolution.” As the next man came to speak, Mansore’s mother screamed: “No! He never did any of those things! He never even went away from the city for long. Why is he lying?” Khosrow said: “Listen to this boy, mother. That is Ali. Six months ago, when the army of occupation arrived, the people were demonstrating against them. That time Ali took a potato from a shop and threw it toward them. The Pasdar arrested him. I know him. He would never go with the P.K. He was studying at high school. He is also lying on tv. I don’t know why.” ● Three days later, the mother was allowed to see her son alone, in a small room in the prison. Standing by her son, she wanted to hold him in her arms, but he wouldn’t let her. She was shocked. “Why? What has happened to you? Why did you say those things on tv? When did you do those things? Where? When did you kill anybody?” Mansore slowly opened his clothes and showed his mother his chest. His chest was full of blisters and infections in the skin. The surface of the skin had been burned with irons. He said: “I am sorry, mother, I couldn’t tolerate this burning.” The mother said nothing. She just looked and slowly cried. Mansore continued: “Ah, mother, while they were burning me, they were saying to me: If you sign what we write, if you speak to the people on tv, you’ll be okay in prison. Now they don’t torture me any more. As I told you, and I told Siamak, I’m not a hero. I am breakable. That’s why I couldn’t be a Peshmerge. I believe in Kurdish equality, but I’m not so strong. Now mother you should go. Please give many greetings to my wife and say sorry to her. Please kiss my little baby. I loved her, I loved you, all of you.” A man came in: “The meeting is stopped. The time is over.” He tied Mansore’s hands and took him out. The next morning at five o’clock, someone knocked on her door. She opened. It was a Pasdar. He gave the mother a plastic bag: “This is your son’s clothes. He was punished two hours ago.” Then he went. ● Siamak was sitting on a stone on the mountain. It was midnight. He gazed up at the clear skies with their adornment of bright moon and countless stars. Suddenly someone loomed behind him in the dark. “Who’s that?” – “I’m your friend, Poola.” – “Poola. Why aren’t you sleeping?” – “I have bad news for you.” – “Yes, Poola, I know. They have killed another two innocent men. The authorities cannot kill all of us, so they kill anybody. I don’t know why my mother always told me that the head of the innocent will go under the gallows-tree, but it won’t go up.” Girl Reading
Nigel Jenkins
The skirt and cardi, the striped school tie: it’s a different uniform she wears today, a book that she holds in her African hands.
The birches sway silver, black they sway against mountain snow. She makes me feellike a child, he said.
At a radiator warming, she lifts to her teacher’s fatherly shw mae a look of coy lustre, eyes back then to the page.
They are wise, the others, with fags and lovebites, but this one’s behind for seventeen, with difficulty coming to the struggle with words,
for she at thirteen was with Mugabe … Like a child, he said, the things she could teach us.
The birches sway against mountain snow, and of what was done she makes no noise: the first colony too its own way to freedom.
She turns the page, putting, after practice, the shine to theory, in struggle still, a continent away, to bring Zimbabwe to Zimbabwe home.
from Dream of Power
Showan Khurshid
The Theory of Shouting
(The Cunning Man is learning how to gain power.) The Masked Man: Yes, that’s the most modern theory, the theory of shouting. You haven’t heard of it? Actually, no one has, because gaining power means depriving others of power. Shouting theory is based on a game, but one in which no one tells anyone else what the rules are. The important thing is to find out the rules and then play. If you leave others in the dark, you win. But how can you know the rules? – Intuition is the answer. Who has this intuition? – Those who can shout. What I’m telling you now is the greatest of secrets. Listen. What does shouting mean? – It means either that there is imminent danger, or that a wonderful or important change is about to occur. Just think about when you or other people shout. A child cries as soon as it comes into the world. You shout when you’re excited, or shocked, or angry, or when you attack. When an important person is carried in a convoy, sirens go wild, and bodyguards sometimes stick their heads out of car windows to act as extra amplifiers. Their gestures are meant to tell you to give way, but the real message is: “Hey, you, insignificant person! It’s time you realised how insignificant you are!” A child communicates through its cry, doesn’t it? – For a child, the only important thing is herself. But children are gradually told: It’s not only you that’s important. Everyone tells them: I’m important too. Some fathers raise sons, only in order to have someone helpless under their control, to whom they can say how important they are. Thus people inhibit and frustrate one another. There are fathers who dream of pushing their sons into positions of power. But these stupid fathers first of all suppress their sons and their shouting, fearing to become insignificant even in their own sons’ eyes. (Although they accept being insignificant in the eyes of significant people outside.) These fathers send their sons to the best schools of politics, psychology and economics, hoping they’ll learn. And they do learn, and come back home, and the dictator cuts their throats. So these fathers actually send their sons to the butcher. What they ought to do instead, is prepare a room for them where they can go and shriek. And in fact not all people are so suppressed. Some find a place where there’s no one to tell them to shut their ugly mouth, and there they train themselves to shout and scream. Now you know this important secret, that’s the main thing: find a place where you can shout as much as you want. You see, if you go to the town square and start shouting: “I allow this! I don’t allow that!”, then some people will say: Let’s stop and see. They will say: Rules are being made, we’d better know about them before we break them and get into trouble. Others will be very grateful to you just for telling them the rules they should follow in their lives. These are people who are burdened with a sense that they are breaking rules, although they don’t know what rules they are. So they live in anxiety, expecting someone to grab them by the collar and tell them that the time of judgement has come. They’ll follow you immediately, saying to themselves: “This man means what he says. He says what he allows and what he doesn’t allow. Now at last we can be sure that no one’s going to beat us up for doing wrong. This man’s a saint. And all these years we’ve lived in the hell of uncertainty!” The only other people who need concern us are those who dare to stand in your way. These should simply be crushed. Shouting is a form of capital, it gives a good dividend. We pit the people who are attracted by the yelling against those who are antagonised by it. It’s a purely administrative issue. But the key thing is that we let everyone believe that the essence of the matter is the rules, rather than the shouting. Shouting is the thing that has to be kept secret. No one must know that it’s the shouting that really matters. That’s the trick. This is the most advanced theory for gaining power. But also it is well established tradition among our leaders. There was a petty clerk, back in the 1930s, who would yell and scream and swear at anything. Some people came and said: “You shout very well. Why don’t you go out to those soldiers, they’re doing nothing except eating army rations, go and fix them so they attack.” Then they told the soldiers: “A very respectable, intelligent, exceptional person with superior powers is coming to see you.” And he went to the soldiers and began shouting and yelling right away. The soldiers thought that something terrible must be about to happen. He told them: “Life will lose its meaning if you don’t attack!” They got so distressed about this, even though they didn’t know what it meant or what would happen if life lost its meaning, that they attacked right away. And so this man’s shouting cost the lives of 55 millions. Another poor man, a shoemaker’s son from Georgia, rather a short man, had no shoes. In the queue for his father’s shoes his feet were trampled by the rich. Then he joined the party and his fortunes changed. Now he could begin shouting. So many shouts were compressed inside him, he shouted more than anyone. He shouted for the proletariat, and wiped out another 20 million. Such a great character! Only you come close. A third example: this man lived by the edge of a desert, a good place for shouting. And he yelled and shrieked very well. Now his uncle had moved to the city and acquired some power. He knew the importance of shouting. But he was getting on and his windpipe was feeble and sore. So he fetched his nephew to the city to yell for him. But the nephew yelled for himself, not for his uncle. In fact he disposed of his uncle, and buried him and his cousin in heaven, and never allowed them back. Some say it’s technically impossible to bury someone in heaven. So perhaps they’re just lost on the way back to earth and they’ll return some day. My examples annoy you? – Good. That’s what I want. Let your breast fill with anger, so you’ll thunder and roar, so your shrieking voice’ll reach the corners of the world. You, the glorious herald of the glorious and everlasting message of our glorious and unified nation to the whole world! . . . (At this, the Cunning Man shouts and roars like an aeroplane, wild animals, a siren...)
The Partridge Hunt
This is a story about the young head of a village high up in the mountains where the partridges live. These birds sang very nicely and the villagers used to go to the mountain to listen to them, and sometimes they would catch one or two to take home so they could listen to them during the winter. One summer they noticed one partridge that was easily distinguishable from the others: more alert, more beautifully feathered, bigger, and it sang like no other bird. So they decided to catch it and bring it to the village. But day after day they came home empty handed. What began as light-hearted sport became serious. More people were involved and they got more and more frustrated, especially as people from other villages heard about their failure. Their competence and reputation were on the line. They stayed longer and longer on the mountain and they got stressed and weary. So odd things began to happen to them. One day a donkey belonging to one of the villagers ran off. As he chased it past the meadows of another village, people shouted: “What are you chasing? That’s a donkey, not a partridge!” Another man’s hat flew off in the wind, and the neighbouring villagers asked why he didn’t try closing off the wind-hole, to make both the hat and the partridge fall back down to earth. A third man was hunting in the mountain when wolves attacked. He ran to a neighbouring village as the closest safe place, reached it frightened and exhausted, and collapsed. The villagers took him in, but when he came round they said nothing; not wishing to embarrass him, they ran away out of the village to find a place where they could laugh out loud. One of the partridge hunters got so frustrated, he threw a stone at a crow and brought it down, and began to pluck it. “Oh these poor people have mixed up partridges and crows!” said some of the people from other villages. “No,” said others, “the fact is that these people’s partridge is a crow.” There was nothing the partridge-hunting villagers could say. They got together to discuss what to do. Someone suggested: “Why not catch some other partridge and say it’s the one we’ve been hunting.” They were all about to agree when they noticed they couldn’t look one another in the eye. One of them, a man with an analytical mind, said: “We agree that lying is wrong. We teach our children not to lie. They feel ashamed if we catch them lying. Now we’d feel ashamed if they caught us lying. Our children won’t respect us any more. And not even because we lied, but because we couldn’t catch the partridge, in other words because we’re helpless. Some of you will say it’s because we want to deceive those nasty people out there. But we’ve never said they were nasty before. Will we tell our children not to have anything to do with them? If we do this, it will not be because they are nasty, but because we want to lie. And that’s not good.” Some of the villagers said: “Oh Gods, why must the partridge be so complicated!” Most of them hated the analytical man. They muttered: “He just likes sounding philosophical, even if he does no one any good.” But they did come up with a better plan. Next day all the villagers climbed up into the mountain. They divided the whole mountain into small areas and assigned each to a group of people whose job was to prevent the partridge from landing for food or water or rest. It took a few days but at last the bird got tired and confused and landed where one group was able to throw a net over it. There was a big feast. They carried the bird round all the neighbouring villages and boasted about the lessons they’d learned, telling everyone that they’d set an example of hope, veracity, and co-operation. The people of the other villages, who had no beautiful bird nor any other remarkable beast to boast of, had to admit: “Making fun of others is never an achievement, it only wears people down.” But when the partridge hunters came home, they found the analytical man waiting for them, demanding an apology, and that that they recognise his role in their success. They acknowledged the power of his analysis which they’d not wanted to hear. But now another voice spoiled their triumph, as someone from a different village said: “You’ve captured the strongest and most beautiful bird. What does this mean for nature? All the birds will vanish because they’re less fit than this one.” That depressed the partridge hunters, because they knew it was true. But here comes the role of the young head of the village. He released the bird. But the villagers called a general meeting and dismissed him as chief. And he lived not happily ever after, but at least with a good conscience. He befriended the analytical man, and they both lived isolated from the other villagers. One day the analytical man said to him: “I think, after all, you mustn’t be wise enough, or you’d have convinced them with your ideas.” The young ex-chief said nothing. The two of them just stared at each other in silence.
[These excerpts were written for the first time 18 years ago. For me writing would be meaningless if it were not funny, though I cannot be certain that I succeed. Satire is a kind of revenge you take on your oppressors, and oppressors – we had a lot of them. My home town, Kirkuk, was made to feel hostile and alien to us Kurds. Now the city has been liberated, and for this thanks to the American, British and Kurdish forces. One might say that since we are approaching another era, one should forget and forgive. Indeed that is necessary, but we should also know how to avoid the repetition of the same agonies. What happened in Iraq and to the Iraqis was because of Arab nationalism and its over-ambitious plan to build an Arabic superpower, in which ethnic groups like the Kurds, and many others as well, had to either assimilate or disappear. So Saddam was not just an accident: he was the one who was able to be as cruel as it takes to fulfil that plan. And that is why he is still the hero of many Arab nationalists – though hardly in Iraq, because the Iraqis now know, some of them belatedly, what it means to be ruled by Saddam. When I was still a kid, people used to assume that anyone who had travelled to Western countries must have learnt important things. Now it is time for me to inspect myself: what I have learnt during my stay in the West and what has changed in me? To tell the truth I still feel the bitterness I felt when I was in Iraq. Yet I feel that we have a chance now, because I know there is no need to assume that the wrong is something intrinsic to certain ethnic groups. The wrong is in the political culture and the mentality it creates. A bad political culture can create people like Saddam or Stalin. I also know that liberal democracy can allow diverse people to live together, as long as they wish to do so. This possibility was not there under Arab nationalist rule or even in the Islamic Republic of Iran, where a great many Kurds and other Iranians are also suffering. So this is the background of my biography. It is not a biography. My biography is not interesting to me at all, perhaps because I am still not able to laugh at it. But if I ever do write it, it will be about how the years of difficulties turned me into a ghost, which is what I feel I am. – SK]
I Feel Like Nobody Here
Maxson Sahr Kpakio
Dedicated to asylum seekers and refugees in the UK
I feel like nobody here, ashamed, like everybody Hates me, But they don’t know me, they really Don’t know who I am either, Only they know what they read in the Newspapers about me And that is not me.
I feel like nobody here, Despite the torture and persecution I managed To escape from home, in search Of a land of peace and respect for Human rights – as soon as I got in, I was put into detention centre, And the newspapers did the rest.
I feel like nobody here, People are being beat up and killed Sometimes just because they are Asylum seekers, But please, could you find out better.
We didn’t come here for this, we try to leave Behind this, we try to find peace here, but it’s Far from being possible, not with this media.
They refer to me as bogus asylum seeker, And they even told others that I am Just a parasite, and a disease carrier, But that is not me.
If it was good at home where respect for human Rights and relative peace was like before, I would go home tomorrow. I didn’t want to come here, I didn’t want To be a refugee either. But I am here and I want to contribute And fit in. But how can I? How can people really accept me when All they read about me is rubbish, Nothing but rubbish.
But I don’t blame them for fear of me, They believe What They read.
I feel like nobody here, I want to meet them And speak to them and tell them it’s Not true. Let me tell them that I am Not what they read in The newspapers.
I Was Very Lucky
Hans Popper
In the late nineteenth century, the word ‘race’ became politicized and confused with the word ‘nation’. The Jews, so blatantly a mixed community of peoples, were and still are widely – whether naively, or maliciously – called a ‘race’. Before the plebiscite confirming the unification of Germany and Austria in 1938, political slogans were painted on the pavements of Vienna. After Hitler’s victory, Nazis hauled Jews out of their flats to scrub the streets clean. Photographs of groups of local people standing around and having a good laugh were, of course, in the press. As things ‘normalised’, everybody ‘non-Aryan’ – i.e. Jewish – could be hauled off the streets or taken from their flats to be interrogated in a police station. Sometimes they were let go again, more frequently put in prison or in a concentration camp. Prison was usually followed by release. In concentration camps, survival was a possibility, but it was rare. Also seized were people known to have belonged to one of the anti-Nazi parties (e.g. the Social Democrats), or anyone else who might be anonymously denounced, usually by the private entrepreneurs – or profiteers and gangsters – who took advantage of confiscated property. If you owned a shop or business, you were well advised to sell it and get away if you could. Some buyers were simply profiteers, but some actually helped their customers. Acquiring passports and exit visas was not so hard, though it was complicated enough, and was made as unpleasant as possible. Getting entry visas was always the really difficult part. Most if not all countries closed their frontiers to Jewish refugees, only letting in a trickle of small groups. One day it might be fifty to Finland, or twenty somewhere else, for no apparent reason. Special Kindertransports were organised for children, and a few Jews managed to get visas for Palestine (which was then under British mandate). A small number – mostly women – were accepted into domestic service in Britain. Otherwise, you had to be invited by someone who could guarantee for your upkeep. A few people crossed borders illegally, and what happened to them would depend on the grace and favour of the particular country. Why could so few people get to safety? One reason one always hears is: “The foreigners take our jobs away from us.” Yet any economist can tell you that the opposite is the case: immigrants’ ideas and initiatives create jobs and other opportunities. The true reasons, in that time of depression and mass unemployment, were stark fear and xenophobia: fear of strangers. An animal smelling an animal from a different herd is put on the defensive. The notorious story of the ship full of refugees sailing from country to country, ending up with all aboard dead, is too well known. I was very lucky. My mother had English relatives – her uncle had moved to London before the First World War. His wife was the mother of Leslie Howard, the concert pianist, and other artistic boys and girls. Leslie was a big earner, but also a big spender, so they were reasonably comfortable, but not really rich enough to look after us. Still, they helped where they could, and George Howard (a cousin, who was an RAF officer in the First War) worked very hard, even visiting us in Vienna, to help us get British visas. He and a lawyer eventually succeeded in getting us out. First we stayed in Prague – my father had family there – but the Czechoslovak authorities would not consider extending our transit visa; so on the 27th of September, I think it was, we flew to London. Why did we fly? Because we had to sign an undertaking never to set foot on German soil again (and who could have wanted to?). When we got out of the plane in Croydon Airport, some official cross-examined us, although everything he could have wanted to know was clear from our passports and visas. How long this might have gone on and what the outcome might have been I can’t imagine, but fortunately George Howard turned up, and after a few minutes’ conversation, we followed him to his car. Settling in was a hazardous matter. Work permits were almost impossible to get. We depended on chance amounts of money turning up, often from the overworked refugee organisation in Woburn Square. Eventually I got a free place at a boarding school in the Cotswolds set up by a philanthropic Victorian millionaire. My parents had been asked by the refugee committee to run a house for refugees, and a local clergyman told us about the school. By now the war had started. Soon they were all interned. I was under sixteen, too young to be taken. It was indiscriminate mass internment, no rhyme or reason in it. Most internees were released again after a few months, allegedly on medical grounds. Young men like my older brother went into the forces. Among others, there were a good many suicides . . .
Interrogatory Humberto Gatica
The cold silence of the interrogation room Tied hands Blindfolded Somebody smokes and waits Doors open and close The faces of torture confuse my memories and eclipse my colours A telephone rings for ever and then . . . nothing
Only the vast night chaotic and eternal
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