Camouflage-coloured shreds of loose fabric layered on piles near the rails. Flies are attacking it in the heat. Swarming around it. Resting on it for a second, then startled by another distant shot.
I can see soldiers attaching the cloth to the dilapidated train, throwing it over the scratched roof and sticking yellow-black stripes on the windows. They are preparing it provisionally for the „journey“ - heading for the „dead end“ - to supply those facing the fall. And secretly – along the way - at a legendary spot. Hidden underneath a range of hills, embedded in untouched soil:
The haven.
And I am allowed in.
But I can hear gunfire echoing in the distance – I can almost feel the shivering on their skins. I can sense militant troops dotting my view. As I am covering my ears.
I can see and sense so much!
They are directing their guns and rifles at the crowd. I can see their violence. All of them wiping away sweat, flies and dirt. Leaving blurred lines there, cemented by dust. Running down in streams - crumbling in particles at their chins. Intermixing to a thin mush layer moistening their throats. War-torn faces wear the fingerprint of conflict.
But all your intentions here. For me. In this very moment. In the alarm and rubble, while I am protecting all my senses. It captures nothing else but one particular word - resounding in my head again and again. Round and round.
Solace.
Recalling your tenderness.
This is the „transport hub“ and, well, - I am afraid of it. Though. A place intended to carry the bombs and guns to the south, to stock up their ordnance, to store their ammunition. Supplies to arm their guns and tanks. Heading straight for the conflict, to keep it going.
The „dead end“.
This is what we have been calling it for years. This is the notorious place we heard of when we were growing up! There, they have been facing the mere fall for ages. But at the same time, this is now a way out - and only a few know this. Yes, only a few know this last resort.
And you have chosen this for me.
This is just another sun in May.
It is glistening and still young. A juxtaposition of liveliness and the fall. One of a thousand days. But I am addressing it now. Because this is my way out.
But I cannot define what I am feeling at this very moment, as my senses are overstrained by the scenario. No, I cannot even speak of the depths inside of me. All I can say is that I have been wallowing in accusations for decades. But then. It was your hand that stepped in. So suddenly and abruptly. Intertwining your care with my distress - in just one single moment.
When you held me in the masses.*
Reaching out for my hand - hard. Smuggling me through the crowd as it was heating up. Shielding me from the jerky movements of fury, anger and desperation. Their bickering, quarrelsome voices. You were fighting your way through. Then veiling me in your cloak. Fending off jabs and kicks - blowing me a kiss and stroking my cheek in the hurry. Then letting me go – beyond the barriers!
This is why I am holding on so tight to the colourful pillow you had stored in my worn backpack in the turmoil. Something to rest my head on for a long way to go. But it is so colourful. Multi-patchworked and carefully interlaced patterns - drawn with the colours you placed in my heart. Once. When I came into existence. Soft and cuddly. It was sewn by your fingertips without ever putting the work aside - not one single second. And it smells of the cream for your busy, always caring hands.
Woven by the thoughtful and attentive hands of a father.
And this is my sun of May.
Glistening and young.
Now, from above - from your perspective - a warm ray of light falling on the bizarre snapshot in time, for the good and the bad. Piercing through the cloudscapes that are speckled by the helicopters. Then mirrored by the shiny metal flashing beneath the rusty stains of the freight train’s exterior. It is like a sigh of relief!
For the good and for the bad.
I am walking along the narrow aisle as soldiers are guiding me to the seat. Surrounding me seamlessly. Almost pushing me into the veiled compartment. You gave your everything. To afford this. You let go of the last thing you had.
They are directing me to sit down and to be quiet – not a single word is allowed as they are pulling the little curtain shut. I can hear their guns clicking into place. When they are leaning over me to adjust the belt. They are watching my every move. Then, closing the door. Kicking it shut. Locking it twice. The scent of old, layered sweat lingering in the air.
Now I am hidden.
But I do know that they, too, are tearing their attention away from the familiar ruins, remains, and the bony black scaffolds marking the periphery of the attacked city. They are so weary of it.
I can see it in their eyes.
And so do you!
The ironclad skeleton covering the station – the neighbouring buildings scorched.
A broken-down skyline. Jagged, angular, anthracite-coloured.
While we are departing, it is hard for me to accept that - even in here - a further armed gun barrel is reflecting a light beam to my eye. Just as they are closing the doors. But I can see it clearly!
I am adjusting my seat, holding on to my backpack. Crossing my legs on the seat in front of me. It is tiny and tight, dim light. I can hardly move - or breathe.
No one has ever asked me to join this ride, to sit here in the darkened cabin. Waiting. But it is an opportunity to bypass me. From the impact radius. The explosion hazards – now in the air. The scorched tree stumps - like long-lit matches in rows. Struck down like a knock-on effect.
I am leaning back, a soft humming accompanying the jerky ride as we are approaching the unknown. A real contrast to me. But my head is cushioned by the soft, patchwork-sewed pillow. Multicoloured patterns woven in so elaborately – with your distinctive scent caught in it. Instantly calming me down.
Solace.
And I am recalling your tenderness.
Woven.
With the colours you placed in my heart.
While on the way - on this dilapidated freight train - on this jerky and humming ride. Here,I am taking a second – or more – daring to address fragments of the past.
I can remember those campaigning for freedom, making brotherly love to their adage. Offering an apple or two for the hungry. Instead of eating it themselves. In the scarcity that has wreaked havoc across the nations. They were giving their everything - without claiming anything for it. Offering it as a gift. And I can remember their voices fading away. Along with the leaves that had changed from vivid green in the trees, to ocher-coloured, thin and papery dryness.
But I saw your glory in their eyes.
Here on my seat, right now. Pulling the tiny curtain aside - cautiously. Just to catch at least one little glimpse of the troops deployed in the aisles - only with one eye and only for a second.
Again, I can feel the summer‘s sweat beads firsthand – heavily in the stuffy air. Caught here in the compartment.
Beads.
Just as they are running down their cheeks like tears.
You see them!
And you are sorry for them.
As they are crying out to their mothers, in secret. As they are facing their inner strife - against their will! Again, beads are vaporizing instantly from their war-torn faces. Marked by warpaint - now melting away in streams. Here in the boiling heat - on a runaway train.
Just as drops are perspiring on their skin.
They are immediately caught - saved n your hands.
Some find their way trickling down the tips of their noses, touching their chins and shoulders – when they are falling. Moistening their weapons, their military boots, their equipment, their holsters, and their bulletproof vests. Their camouflage-coloured shreds.
Too hot to leave stains on their uniforms and knees.
You will remember each of them - before they vanish into the air.
For the good and the bad.
And this is the real sun of May. It is your face of May. Friendly and approving - chasing away the autumn in my eyes - as a master of situations.
Even if I cannot see it through the veils. I cannot control the sky, laden with bombers and jets, and helicopters - arming and spreading their bombshells randomly over the country.
Even if I cannot control what is out there, what is approaching our train. I am certain - no bomb will ever find me here. No drone will hit me. No bomb splinter will cut my skin or even draw a line into my body. As you are in control of the sky, lighting it up. Whenever you want to.
There will be no sorting out, no preferences. No one rejected.
This is your sun of May, leading me to the haven. My heartbeat is calming down again as I am closing my eyes. As I remember your tenderness and the colours you placed in my heart. Woven into my cushion.
As I am sensing your smell near my ears, my nose, my mouth - I am falling asleep. Here, while clinging to your presence. Orange sun through the veils, filtered by fabric, but warm and once again I can feel the word - physically. Accompanying me in sheltered dreams.
My sun in May!
Echoing.
Solace.
"No love in this world is stronger than the love of a father!“
Excerpt from a Christian book – dealing with the orphan heart.