I can say with certainty,
that the only man who could love me without forcing himself,
is Friedrich Engels.
There is a silent treaty among subordinates;
that at all times of the day,
and without a shutterbug, who would cram that moment into eternity,
they can place their heads into each other’s lap,
and summon comfort.
I go to the bathroom,
to fix my hair and smudged mascara.
I bump into a flock escaped from history text-books.
They drift in a long line along the narrow hallway.
They jostle past each other,
as if there was revelation at the end, or at least some blueberry pie.
I feel uncomfortable,
when Robespierre grabs my collar and pushes me up against the wall,
so my feet dangle ten centimeters above the ground.
So much blood spilled for freedom of speech, and now we’re all silent.
Nobody feels a sense of calling.
We’re making out with other losers in corners.
Nobody wants to lay out a plan for a better tomorrow.
There is no überman
that would suddenly appear and save the day.
I feel sorry for Robespierre.
His essay against capital punishment was good.
I move along his face with the edge of my palm.
He is not beautiful and he was wrong many times.
Yet I am full of compassion, when he stands before me so upset.
We are equal before law,
but he needs explaining,
that equality, as all on Earth,
has its limit, one that is thin and hardly visible.
He can’t take me with him.
I go back to Friedrich –
there is nothing great about him.
I seek refuge in his kind subordination,
as orthodox Jews seek refuge in the shadow of His wings.
© translated by Jasmin B. Frelih