Stilted shadows (Baltic way), 2020
These villages. Alone together. You won’t find their names on any map.
If anything ever happens here no one would know.
Surrounded by the trees that absorb them. These forests form a barrier that keeps the stories obscure.
Secret places, wooden houses, tall trees. The road that leads through the forest is narrow and tight. We strain our eyes we lift our heads but we cannot see which direction the road leads.
It is the middle of summer and the shadows fall stronger than ever.
Every generation
Blames the one before
And all of their frustrations
Come beating on your door
We know that we’re prisoners
To all our Fathers held so dear
We know that we’re the hostages
To all their hopes and fears
We wander the tiny streets, we walk beside the compact houses.
Roughly-hewn wood stacked up, barely reaching human height. Home made homes.
They are all placed in neat little rows like so many doll houses in a child’s play set.
The smell of wood smoke wafts through the air like an olfactory menace.
We could never be too comfortable in this place.
crumpled bits of paper
Filled with imperfect thought
Stilted conversations
I'm afraid that's all we've got
You say you just don't see it
He says it's perfect sense
You just can't get agreement
In this present tense
We all talk a different language
Talking in defence
Our pasts are not a burden, they are lessons to be learned.
We have seen the darkness, we have declared never again.
Now we must decide for ourselves. Do we go left or do we go right?
We hesitate. It is impossible to see where the path through the forest leads.
we ate the summer berries, we walked the tiny streets. we tried to peer past the curtains in the windows.
Every generation
Blames the one before
crumpled bits of paper
Filled with imperfect thought
These villages. Alone together. You won’t find their names on any map.
If anything ever happens here no one would know.
Surrounded by the trees that absorb them. These forests form a barrier that keeps the stories obscure.
Secret places, wooden houses, tall trees. The road that leads through the forest is narrow and tight. We strain our eyes we lift our heads but we cannot see which direction the road leads.
It is the middle of summer and the shadows fall stronger than ever.
Every generation
Blames the one before
And all of their frustrations
Come beating on your door
We know that we’re prisoners
To all our Fathers held so dear
We know that we’re the hostages
To all their hopes and fears
We wander the tiny streets, we walk beside the compact houses.
Roughly-hewn wood stacked up, barely reaching human height. Home made homes.
They are all placed in neat little rows like so many doll houses in a child’s play set.
The smell of wood smoke wafts through the air like an olfactory menace.
We could never be too comfortable in this place.
crumpled bits of paper
Filled with imperfect thought
Stilted conversations
I'm afraid that's all we've got
You say you just don't see it
He says it's perfect sense
You just can't get agreement
In this present tense
We all talk a different language
Talking in defence
Our pasts are not a burden, they are lessons to be learned.
We have seen the darkness, we have declared never again.
Now we must decide for ourselves. Do we go left or do we go right?
We hesitate. It is impossible to see where the path through the forest leads.
we ate the summer berries, we walked the tiny streets. we tried to peer past the curtains in the windows.
Every generation
Blames the one before
crumpled bits of paper
Filled with imperfect thought