Osiromašeni radnik razgovara s Mad Maxom negdje na teritoriju Republike Hrvatske u bliskoj budućnosti poslije Velikog Događaja
Znam kako ti je. Kad kasno kreneš, kad dođe noć. Kvocanje sata iskljujeti tjeme, ova zemlja zamrznuto zijeva. Nikakve motike, nikakva snaga,
ništa ne može okrznuti njenu mrku koru. Trudimo se, da. Ciljamo,
udaramo, trpimo i tučemo. Ponekad je najlakše prestati. Na rubu
horizonta bageri usporeno pretrpavaju. Gdje su ti dobrohotni starci kad nam
zbilja treba pomoći! Kako se zove ova zemlja i tko je nama dao njeno ime?
Svakako, radi se o neumoljivoj istini: Suncu je već odzvonilo.
Nahvata se inje za trepavice, a niz glavu se kotrljaju posječeni balvani.
Samo prhka piljevina ostaje od misli. Tko će mijenjati rasporede, koja sila
može ponovno upaliti semafore? Mi to ne možemo, tko bi nam dao
snagu i ovlasti! Dopušteno nam je skuhati, pa se poslije posvađati: netko je uvijek
dužan oprati posuđe. Truju nas totalni elektroni. Kakve nas još strahote očekuju?
Jer učili smo i upijali. Ratovi su grmjeli, očevi su umirali, a izgrižene
usne govorile: treba ubrzati. Prerijetki su imali snage da zaplaču. Slušali smo i
piljili pred sebe. Visjeli smo privezani, a kao šunke su nas posušili vjetrovi.
Sad je sve nevidljivo. Zvijezde izlaze i kao mjehurići Coca-Cole na tamnoj
površini prskaju. Prebrzo se nestaje. Ne ostaju tragovi, samo pitanja: kojom rukom
prekrižiti ovo malo prašine, čija je ova zemlja i zbog čega nas toliko želi progutati?
An Impoverished Worker Talking To Mad Max, Somewhere On the Territory Of the Republic of Croatia, In the Near Future, After the Great Event
I know what you feel. When you set out late, when night comes. The cluck of the hours
pecks at your skull, in a frozen yawn, this land waits. No hoe, no force,
nothing can scratch its stern shell. We struggle, yes. We aim,
we pound, we bear, we bash. Sometimes it's easiest to stop. At the brim
of the horizon bulldozers dully plod. Where are the benevolent old men when we
really need their help! What is this land called and who gave us its name?
Surely, it's an inexorable truth: the Sun has had its day.
White frost builds up on the lashes, and down the head felled sawlogs roll.
Only brittle sawdust remains of what were thoughts. Who will change the schedules, what power
can switch the stoplights back on? We can't do it, who would give us
the strength and authority? We are allowed to cook, and argue afterwards: someone is always
left to do the dishes. The total electrons contaminate us. What other horrors await?
For we learned and we took in. Wars thundered, fathers died, and the lips we bit through
uttered: we must accelerate. Very few had the strength to weep. We listened and
stared blankly. We hung tied up and were dried like hams by the winds.
Everything is invisible now. The stars come out and like Coca Cola bubbles against a dark
surface they burst. Things cease too soon. No traces remain, only questions: which hand
to cross this bit of dust with, whose land is this, and why is it so eager to swallow us?