Micadrko
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Micadrko
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Baldr - Gealdýr
Pffft, pffft
"Open your eyes Jan! Jaaaan! open your fucking eyes!"
I find myself in the midst of my comrades, completely disoriented, hearing the arrows hitting the trunks of the eaglewood trees surrounding us. The screams, full of hope, full of courage and yet full of pain and fear.
Unable to keep my eyes open, I drift off again, the violet leaves caressing my beard in a gentle rhythm thanks to the wind. The treetops of the eaglewood trees let the precious warm rays of the sun shine on my face, if only a little. It smells of dark green, tart patchouli and dry vetiver that grows and thrives on the banks of a stream. The forest welcomes my body and greets me with the sight of beautiful tree trunks with resin dripping down the bark, as if it were weeping for me.
I smell dried tobacco in the pipes of my companions, but there is no suitable moment to light it.
With every passing minute, everything around me becomes blurrier, softer and warmer. The sight of the forest blurs in my perception into a bed made of wood, covered with warm amber blankets that cradle me. Such a damn soft bed, so warm and cozy that I almost begin to look forward to eternal sleep.
"Jaaan open your eyes you id*ot late shift is about to start D*mmkopf"
.... "that damn record scratching noise"
.... "a big sigh"
.... a coffee and one last deal before business if you know..
"Open your eyes Jan! Jaaaan! open your fucking eyes!"
I find myself in the midst of my comrades, completely disoriented, hearing the arrows hitting the trunks of the eaglewood trees surrounding us. The screams, full of hope, full of courage and yet full of pain and fear.
Unable to keep my eyes open, I drift off again, the violet leaves caressing my beard in a gentle rhythm thanks to the wind. The treetops of the eaglewood trees let the precious warm rays of the sun shine on my face, if only a little. It smells of dark green, tart patchouli and dry vetiver that grows and thrives on the banks of a stream. The forest welcomes my body and greets me with the sight of beautiful tree trunks with resin dripping down the bark, as if it were weeping for me.
I smell dried tobacco in the pipes of my companions, but there is no suitable moment to light it.
With every passing minute, everything around me becomes blurrier, softer and warmer. The sight of the forest blurs in my perception into a bed made of wood, covered with warm amber blankets that cradle me. Such a damn soft bed, so warm and cozy that I almost begin to look forward to eternal sleep.
"Jaaan open your eyes you id*ot late shift is about to start D*mmkopf"
.... "that damn record scratching noise"
.... "a big sigh"
.... a coffee and one last deal before business if you know..
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Dziadek i babcia
December 1982, on the cold, snow-covered streets of Nicolai.
When a woman with 2 children aged 14 and 3 received the long-awaited but equally dreaded letter that the time had come.
In the warmest clothes the family could muster.
Smelling of roses and fruit to keep up the appearance of a lady.
Hiding everything that was dear to her in the diaper of the sleeping child.
Always keeping a firm grip on her husband's wooden pipe, which reminded her of him and his smell.
The trembling of fear veiled under the cold of the Eastern Bloc, with the hope in their hearts that carried them through the night together.
The air smelled of smoke and soot from the pipe long out of use, of her dark brown, varnished oak body. Mixed with Grandma's scent of roses and fruit in a perfect symbiosis that slowly blurred into a picture.
Safely on the first train, she pulled a picture out of her jacket pocket, a picture whose significance was so great...
You could smell the yellowed old paper and the smell of the vanilla tobacco smoked in the house, which left a hint of amber and vanilla in the carriage.
She closed her eyes, thought of Grandpa, of the picture of her family, her children's hands clasped in her own, with the priest's words, the father's words and the son's words in her mind, she fell asleep....
When a woman with 2 children aged 14 and 3 received the long-awaited but equally dreaded letter that the time had come.
In the warmest clothes the family could muster.
Smelling of roses and fruit to keep up the appearance of a lady.
Hiding everything that was dear to her in the diaper of the sleeping child.
Always keeping a firm grip on her husband's wooden pipe, which reminded her of him and his smell.
The trembling of fear veiled under the cold of the Eastern Bloc, with the hope in their hearts that carried them through the night together.
The air smelled of smoke and soot from the pipe long out of use, of her dark brown, varnished oak body. Mixed with Grandma's scent of roses and fruit in a perfect symbiosis that slowly blurred into a picture.
Safely on the first train, she pulled a picture out of her jacket pocket, a picture whose significance was so great...
You could smell the yellowed old paper and the smell of the vanilla tobacco smoked in the house, which left a hint of amber and vanilla in the carriage.
She closed her eyes, thought of Grandpa, of the picture of her family, her children's hands clasped in her own, with the priest's words, the father's words and the son's words in her mind, she fell asleep....
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