Babel

In the beginning, the world was a belt, all of it connected, a horizon without high or low, independent, without rank. Then the people, bored with roads that had no uphill, came to a wide plain and said,

“Come, let us bake bricks and build a tower that reaches the top of heaven, so that our name may be known throughout the world. In the name of God, let us conquer the world.”*

They raised a vertical tower and crammed the long, outstretched belt inside it. The running horses had their limbs severed, and the horses that cried out were bridled. Their screams entered those gentle, wounded eyes and became wordless. The horses once left to graze scattered into the air and have yet to return.

That was when every thought existing on earth came crashing down with the thunder of hoofbeats.

Look at this chaos— a war of words, words thrown like bombs, quarrels raging everywhere, words biting off their own tongues. Do you see?

From the moment the wounded earth opened its mouth, the history of war began.

Imagine a lake that has become a desert, a vast silence that has swallowed every sound, the immeasurable sorrow of those who have lost their words.

Isn’t it like a blank manuscript abandoned by its poet?

In the desert where sandstorms rage, there is a plain where black horses run wild. From the boiling mouths of horses wearing black masks rises a black, burning tongue.

“Tell me. Who is the god you believe in?”

I can still hear the voice bellowing at the words hidden behind your lips.

Shhh… That is the entrance to Babel.

They are still building the tower, even now—

now, when the whole world speaks different languages and uses different words.

Genesis 11:4

Others

Africa may not be Africa to everyone, but you wanted to lean your shoulder against someone as though you had come from Africa.

And so you leaned your shoulder.

You always wore the same face and longed for a warm wall, but the living room, with its firewood burning, could not become a wall.

You crossed the room with a face half-burned away.

Paprika may not be paprika to everyone, but you wanted to set down your gaze like someone choosing paprika.

And so you lowered your gaze.

You always carried the same inner self and longed for a light embrace, but even inside the same bag the colors were different:

red, yellow, green. You, whose expressions were all different, returned to the plastic bag.

Like paprika from Africa, half-burned silence sits around the table.

Silence does not want to be protected.

Marie’s Story

Marie, the six-year-old girl-dog
who lives in our home,

has waiting
in her transparent eyes.

Woof—woof—woof.
That is all she can say,

yet there is no arrogance,
no prejudice
in Marie’s language.

In a face
where language cannot reach,

Marie and I
fall silent.

A place where instinct
recognizes instinct—

as though that were
the center of the world.

Like creatures of consciousness and the unconscious,
paired as one,

Marie and I lean into drowsiness
and drift into an afternoon nap.

The deeper our nap becomes,
our backs turned to the world,

the farther Marie and I
move from humankind.

In a time
when nothing happens,

in the weightless space of time,

Marie and I
touch one another.