Book Three: 1
It was a forlorn eve,
my descent wintry.
In that foreign midnight,
I sounded
the chanceries of doubt
as day drove up
in an ordinary yellow cab.
To my astonishment,
I seemed to be blindfolded
but the clock
—talk talk—
continuing called me,
a voice ever stranger
in complaint.
With my staff I came
to the first step,
sanguine indeed,
and dressed in a well-cut Western suit
—quite the best I saw on anybody
during my whole stay
in that unstable regime.
There were people in plots
bowing to creation.
Please I protested,
I had not come to stay,
You will go in
said Nobody,
all will be quiet.
I looked down
and could see thousands
crowding into the grounds
—my my—
and climbed into the burial site.
Within the twisted
rows of graves,
the teeth of under,
some spoke of hatred
and some of hope.
Blind, they wept on command,
in wheelchairs,
on crutches,
waving stumps.
It was rather haunting—
the gates of shadows,
the path unlit,
and ahead,
also dark,
an abandoned fortress.
Carried along by the crowd,
our way lit by flashlights
through dim corridors,
I said Citizens,
no no.
Ahead, a door opened.
I recognized the old council
sitting round a table,
some in religious collars,
the atmosphere a court.
Chairing the proceeding,
a tall, bearded figure
uttered a few words in German,
for my benefit.
He had lived for a time
and remarked
that I needed
to be dealt with.
Listening quietly,
I tried to avoid
any show of emotion.
This clearly displeased him.
He seemed to expect me
to present my own commentary.
I said in reply
the following,
shaken and uneasy,
the slim thread of truth but little help . . .
Copyright Credit: Srikanth Reddy, “Book Three: 1” from Voyager. Copyright © 2011 by Srikanth Reddy. Reprinted by permission of University of California Press.
Source: Voyager (University of California Press, 2011)