ΚΕΙΜΕΝΑ Show author Ιάσωνας Σταυράκης

Iasonas Staurakis – At the dawn of the war

Luis Debairosmoura-La máquina de hacer corderos_Palinodiae

Artist: Luis Debairosmoura

I’m sorry.
But because of the excessive bleeding we should take him to the ground floor, said the doctor and with a conspiratorial look nodded in the modern soultakers to lead the stranger in his penultimate bed. Nurses, joking, were whispering that it was his last chance to die since the last year he was persistently paying the ticket to go to the other world. However they executed the command with no delay and the stranger lied in the third and last layer that complements the frame of dying.

The room was so wet and white that looked like a shroud ready to wrap in its arms the deck from their bones. The door was opening only at seven in the morning for a formal check and once again shortly before noon, when the reverend was leaving hurriedly for the house of the priestess…
Sometimes cleaners were changing out of compassion the catheter of patients and were desperately informing doctors that sera had been finished. Time was passing, but the goners were not saying a word out of stubbornness, though they had so many things in common between them. Fernando, who was rotting in the first bed, was an anarchist peasant, leader of the organization that was fighting the Franks during the years of dictatorship. He was beaten savagely and imprisoned in the dungeons of Madrid and later in a madhouse the experiments drove him vegetative.

Next to him Lucía was dying; she was a teacher of questionable origin. She was considered extremely dangerous, because she was trying to teach true story. But country doesn’t forgive such mistakes. After her patent had been removed, she was forced to offer her body in order to please and relieve the soldiers returning from Africa… The constant rapes made her fall into a deep depression. Last year this body that looked like harmonica and had neither identity nor voice, was visiting more and more the three-bed rooms of the the undeads. The undercover secret cops beat him up screaming that he will not rewrite.

The command was clear.
For each word, one tooth.
For each phrase, one chop.
So that his soul, that wanted freedom, regrets.
I’m sorry…

Not only for Fernando, Lucy and the poet’s corpse that are born and die every dawn of war, but also for me that I insist on pretending that supposedly I was not there.

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