Switzerland

Jesus on the cross is Good Friday‘s most “popular” image. And it’s not far away from what many people go through somewhere, not always far away, actually never far away, from us.
The war in Ukraine, the bombings in Israel and the never ending conflict at the occupied Palestinian territories, the civilian pain and hunger in Afghanistan, the many forgotten wars, ecological disasters in the so-called Global South, the bloody borders of the so-called Western World, deathly traps for refugees, for people who run away from all catastrophes mentioned. Crossed people, crossed nature and closed crossings, on land, on water, and often, in our minds.
Last week in Switzerland I enjoyed the majestic landscape and the cities of the well-living. I also visited though an underground military fortress and bunker, built in the 1930s, now a military museum. Few people know that neutral Switzerland is actually a highly weaponised country and producer of military equipment. It is a country fascinated by the idea of self defence, of being prepared for an upcoming attack. Historically it has certainly to do with having the German Reich as a neighbour, partly to profit from, partly to be scared of, but the fascination with the own military efficiency didn’t change even decades after all neighbour countries stopped being a threat.
The gorgeous Swiss mountains are thoroughly pierced with tunnels and bunkers, its citizens are as armed as any US one, and they are even very proud of their naval (!) forces. On top of all that Switzerland is still greatly powered by nuclear energy.
There is the world we see, the majestic Alps, the beautiful rural landscapes, the rich cities with their international inhabitants, but there’s more than what we see on first sight, as there is everywhere of course, and therefore Switzerland stands as a metaphor for my reflections today.
Good Friday has always been a day to think of our dead and of the people suffering, near and far away. It is also a day to think of what is worth living for, of what is worth taking a stand for, of how much can we do, offer, say to help others in need, to better this world. Yes, let’s do not lose hope or will to do just that.

Say

Say, dear one,

where have you been?

The seasons are changing,

your summer dress is torn,

someone said you’d lost your voice

and someone it were your sight.

But I know you.

Under the falling leaves

I touch your footprints,

when hearing the news,

I hear your sighs

and when others speak,

I know what you’re saying.

Not a Film

I forgot to tell you
this is not a film.

When the bodies of two men
were washed out on a shore.

When tanks rolled over
a school yard.

When borders opened
for some people.

When forty years
became four days.

When I stopped giving
promises to my son.

When the morning light
took me hostage.

Out of mercy.

Timeout

With closed eyes the world
disappears inside us,
time shrinks and hides
behind the soft skin of our eyelids.
Eleven years, twenty years ago,
forty, the day we were born;
we’ve learned the trick from the very start.
A membraned border, our fine veil
between seeing and looking,
or a wall out of stone
when pain is involved.
Just before we fall asleep,
just before we cry,
just before we give in to madness.

No snow here

No snow to report here yet

though the sky is willing

and our hearts wait for it

in deep winter.

For a while a white softness

would rub out the dirt of the streets,

the remains of this year’s

half-hearted celebrations.

And then, soon after,

we’d be thirsty for colour again,

our mind would shovel away

the heavy burden

from green bushes and red cars,

we’d long for the blue sea,

the moonlight in a warm night

when the cicadas cannot sleep.

But to make it all worth it,

first the snow must come.

Despite it all

We danced because there was no music
We wished what we could never have
We drank though others were thirsty
Despite it all, we opened that door

Low Light

The winter rolls over the land
like a cold carpet.
It’s soothing that seasons
haven’t forgotten their job yet.
As the days get shorter
we shrink a bit more in them too:
less steps, less words, less thoughts.
Only desires are still growing.
How to forget those bonfires
we’ve lit ourselves behind us?
The dancing shadows we watch
are ours.

Voices

Not to interrupt the darkness

we breathed slowly, exhaling

almost invisible smoke.

We had rolled cigarettes

with cold hands, shared fire.

Nothing happened for a while.

Then the stars started falling,

each one like a different voice,

leaving their choir behind,

escaping with a strophe of a song.

Cosmic dust burning up fast.

Caravan

We took the endless road,

no signs, no map, not a single soul.

The winter around us

grinding his teeth to the unlucky ones,

the ones with no caravan.

The queen wears red

Soft-kissed and warm-turned,
the skin touched the fresh pillow.
The last bit of the cream applied,
the golden box thrown into the bin.
But not before one more deep breath
is taken from the now empty space
of vanity and youth obsession.

The queen lies now in bed
and wears red inside.
Her life is blue, her house is yellow,
her teeth are black, her weather cold,
her kingdom ancient, her hands weak.
But her face smells of roses,
of bergamot and citrus.
She closes her eyes and counts
her children, like others count sheep,
to fall asleep or die in their sleep.