Tidsinställd strupe
There are throats that neither knives nor bullets can kill; the more the body closes in around them, the wider they become. Whenever their owner tries to choke them, they emerge through another wound. This poem is not about suicide but about a harsh paradox: failing in every attempt to leave, only to perish at the very moment one chooses to live.
The sky is nothing but a guillotine
that falls upon our necks
and says: 'Such is life.'
No… do not throw yourself out of the window,
as grenades are thrown from behind the bunkers.
For a car may pass below,
and you survive...
No... do not fire a bullet at yourself,
as in a field execution,
becoming both the executioner and the victim.
For You may be left maimed, not dead,
and you survive...
No... do not kick away the chair you’re standing on,
while the noose pulls your neck apart,
ending up like sacks of oranges outside the shopfronts.
For the rope may break, or the ceiling collapse,
and you survive...
No... never throw yourself into the dry well,
the way garbage is thrown into bins at dawn.
For the well will overflow with your tears while you tremble,
and you survive...
No... do not force the knife through your neck,
nor your navel, nor your forehead,
the way it is forced through the rind of a watermelon
or against the necks of sheep.
For doctors may gather around you,
and, brutally, return you to life,
and you survive...
Then what?
Say: "I want to live."
Only then,
you will never survive.
