“The legend is about a princess languishing in exile, in a village whose language she does not understand, far from her compatriots. One day this princess receives a letter saying that her fiancé has not forgotten her and is on his way to her. The fiancé, so says the rabbi, is the Messiah; the princess is the soul; the village in which she lives in exile is the body. She prepares a meal for him because this is the only way in which she can express her joy in a village whose language she does not know.” Benjamin, Franz Kafka. I had a bad dream. I was lost on the snow in a village. I wanted to go home. “Wasn´t there anything in the village?” All! There was everything! “But there wasn´t anything… like trains… to go home?” Yes, everything. But there was nowhere to go. The white tail of truth, a white rabbit jumping across a white field. Throw the poems from the open window! If the book becomes of glass, it was poetry. Europe is a white lie. Putin a short man, two years old, stealing candies and walking through the nightmare. Is er schon auf den Bergen? There´s no more Ulysses, no longer any Odysseus. They starve to death; verhungern, verdursten, sich verdüstern… cadiamo. There is no longer any Europe, or star, to return to: to reach and preach. Away awake the ghosts! Away from us: your white hands! The borders of Europe zerbrechen sich ins Meer, la pasta è friabile, the heart is losing bits South in the Αιγαίο Πέλαγος
