Foto: Tine Poppe/Aschehoug
Last night was not pleasant
The world was curiously tight and vomited all of men
The hushed sound of razors rubbed its throat
All roads were one-way
Last night smelled like blood
The earth’s cheeks were red
A group of white pigeons brought the news
In your neighborhood the throat of love had been slit by the garden
Last night, the night didn’t get a wink
It was up till morning, thinking about fire, thinking about water
Hope faded into the walls
Lanterns acted like they weren’t there
All that was, was the sound of death and the weeping of fear, and there was fear, fear, fear
Last night you were distraught
You had no water, home, seed, nor roof
You didn’t even have a grave
Everything you owned were strewn along the path of wind and fire
The shadow of migration dripping on your wings
This scene was vacated before night turned to dawn
Last night was warm
And the sky was closer to earth than ever
You could count your breaths
And in a vast vacuum, all the crickets sang for you
Last night it was raining and fall lay down upon the world
Where God’s shame was lost between giants of water and fire
Western winds brought you news that the sea had swallowed your children of every color, of every shape
Last night winter was ashamed of your red sore toes
Your breath filled the meadows
It was dark
And the crowd of merry hunters had emptied the scene
Of all humans
Last night you dreamt of spring
Inverted tulips sang to you:
Oh, you blood-winged asylee
Empty of identity
Empty of family
Of love
Of existence
Of humanity!
It’s a shame that you were a number on a piece of paper
Last night was the cruelest of nights
Dust of fog
And the weight of silence grabbed the meadow in its arms
I looked at myself
Clear water poured down and trickled under the velvet mud of the cold sea
Last night your voice rode on the wings of the seasonal winds
Slipping through the bars of shameless justice
And blinded the candle of my room
It had come across
Rivers and plains
From the Ottoman empire to Europa…
Last night your eyes cut open a chest of dark clouds
Restless purple teardrops
In the sound of wind
With no end in sight
Sat in the still black meadow
Darkness drowned them
Last night you were sad
And the little bird sheltering in your heart made no noise
There were just shreds of soft blue
Caressing the walls and the doors
The moon
Was imprisoned in the corner of the house
Last night I was exhausted
by all the roads and borders
Last night I wanted to sleep a lifetime
Until Judgement Day came and I would get up and be sentenced to sleep again
Last night I was waiting for you as always
You didn’t show up
/
Benyamin Farnam er poet og dokumentarfilmskaper fra Iran. På grunn av sitt arbeid og sine politiske standpunkter ble han tvunget til å flykte og kom til Oslo som fribyforfatter i 2018.
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This poem is part of a series with prose and poetry about the refugee during the ongoing climate catastrophes. The poem is written with support from Norsk Kulturfond. / Dette diktet inngår i en serie med prosa og poesi om flyktningen under klimaforverringene, her med støttet fra Norsk Kulturfond.
Tidligere tekster om flyktningen på nettsiden:
Wind, just for the refugees / Ashur Etwebi
Mediterranean blue / Naomi Shihab Nye
Flygtningenes tid / Kirsten Thorup
Ømhed og politisk praksis / Jonas Eika, Rolf Sparre Johansson
Ai Weiwei: Our Judgement is Crippled
Lyudmyla Chersonska: Two poems
Jægeren og de som jages / Susanne Christensen
Andreas Eckhardt-Læssøe: Om at samle sig og samle sammen
Madame Nielsen: Slovenia – Østerrike
Thomas Hylland Eriksen / Arne Johan Vetlesen: Klimaflukt som moralsk utfordring
Herta Müller: Nachts, wenn die Zäune wandern
Freddy Fjellheim og Søren Høyner: Uskyldige menneskers flukt fra klimaødeleggelse
Inger Elisabeth Hansen: Å resirkulere lengselen
Frode Grytten: Tusener seglar igjen
Gunnar Wærness: Venn med alle, III
KLIMAAKSJON / NORWEGIAN WRITERS´ CLIMATE CAMPAIGN // NWCC 