The coda is very long | We wonder why? | The main movements were immense, ancient, unstoppable, like glaciers, but now this muted music goes on and on | with no drama, only nuance, melancholy, resignation | Small fires break out | the city endures its own ruins | people meet among the shadows, they keep their voices low | everyone is dazed, concussed by events signalling the end | of a meaningful history | ten centuries raised in the blade of a bulldozer | pulverized visions, I love you, twitch of pupils dilating, the sound | of the west wind among rainy sycamores in November | all leaves down | It’s a great party, plenty of booze, good music, at some point | I have the feeling I’m on a treadmill | even my own body is a treadmill | and I wonder | if that feeling might be called a soul? | The war is an anti-climax | the stories from the refugees | conform to well-known patterns | and in the children’s eyes | as they gaze at the capital | you can find a prophecy: These may not be called fragments now | but they will be

The soul endures after death | but death endures, too, as part of the soul | you cannot separate them | they lead to each other | immortality is no memory | Unlike us, they had no written language | although stone for carving was all around them | They were very young, the children, but already they knew | sometimes water is for drinking | but sometimes | drowning

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