David Grossman - Falling out of time

of our bodies swallowed up

into the darkness as we walk ,

we all walk

there—

And sometimes it does seem

that there is something moving in the wall .

It breathes. We do not say

a word. More than anything

we fear

the hope. Of what awaits beyond the wall

we do not dare to think. At dawn ,

and twilight, too, our bodies elongate ,

we grow into extremely slender

giants, silhouettes. And sometimes

deep inside there floats a golden speck ,

fading from one, skipping to the other ,

and this we do not speak of either. We walk in gloom .

Across the way, on gnarled rock ,

a spider spins a web, spreads out his taut ,

clear net. Then he creates a recess

and he burrows deep inside it—

Our faces

are sealed, our feet

strike, hit the earth ,

the earth is also a wall .

The sky above as well, perhaps .

Walk, walk more, constantly

walk so as not to be crushed

between the walls. One step ,

another, another step, our bleary eyes

see only humps of rocky stone ,

scabs of brown and gray, and

a thin spiderweb waving

in the breeze—

Sunset pours its light upon the wall .

It almost draws attention for a moment. That light

of golden-red. Warm, appeasing

light. Since the day my daughter drowned, I gather up

each moment of beauty and grace, for her .

And I ,

my friends ,

ever since ,

have looked

at things of beauty twice .

Oh, m’lord, I swear ,

I’m just like you, except that

I don’t have the words you have

from education. But Lady of the Nets ,

you move me so each time

you speak of your son. Well, m’lord ,

that’s because poems suddenly

tumble out my mouth. It is the same

with me, my lady: poetry

is the language

of my grief .

Look—

there—

one green leaf .

Wondrous how it managed to sprout

here and survive in the naked ,

arid rock. A fly lands on the leaf ,

cleans its body ,

scrubs and polishes

translucent wings—

We walk, alert, watching

the fly like a riddle—

vibrant, full of life, of lust;

it hovers and then

lands again, playful ,

it should be more careful near the web .

But no—

the fool has touched the spiderweb ,

brushed it with its wing ,

now lost .

Disaster here, we know, instantly

now, disaster, its cold fingers

on our lips .

We walk fast, we walk

hard, threads bind .

The fly struggles, tries to take flight ,

buzzes so loudly the sky might tear ,

and its mouth opens wide:

What are you trying to say?

And what is it you know now ,

that you did not know

when you were spawned?

A day or two later

at dusk, half asleep ,

we notice that our stride

has changed. We walk, we step

so quickly, our skin bristles, what is it?

The earth, it seems, is softer?

Opening up to furrows

and dimples? Our feet understand

before we do, as they strike the earth ,

deepening, dust rises ,

backs straighten, eyes glimmer—

Each of us kneels down

upon the earth, digs into it with

hands and feet, with nails. Digs

quickly, like an animal ,

and it trembles at our touch. Our hands

suddenly light, supple, fingers knead ,

whole bodies dig in dirt and dust .

TOWN CHRONICLER:

My wife,

she, too.

Her lovely shoulders

moved, hovered.

An agile shape

danced in her

sorrow-heavy body,

slipped away, like moth

from dusty lamp …

She stopped. Wiped her forehead

with her hand.

I took my life

in my hands and smiled.

She smiled back! Up and down

I wiggled both my brows.

She smiled some more!

I went back to digging.

WALKERS:

The earth arches, curves itself

toward us, as if having waited

for a long time to be dug ,

dug like this, for people such as us

to dig through it — we have a use now .

We sense how much it wanted

to be wallowed in, rejoiced in, laughed into—

tears and blood and sweat

are all we’ve piled into it always. When—

tell me — when has

someone laughed

into the earth?

The shadow

of the wall grows

longer over us, its blackness sharp

and cool. Teeth of iron

plow us with their umbra .

Vigorously, we fall

into earth’s lap, turn over

in her, inhale her warmth

and breath, and she — the mother

of all life, and so the mother

of all dead, she is bereaved-in-life ,

warm and fluttering in our hands ,

as though begging us to go on ,

to dredge up from her womb

the sweet desires of youth entombed

in her, the sweetness

of childhood which, in her ,

has turned

into dust .

CENTAUR:

Imprisoned

in my room,

on my cursed body-desk,

I finally have written. Like fingers

probing crumbled earth,

I wrote the story.

WALKERS:

As day fades ,

we linger by the wall

among deep trenches:

scars that we inflicted on the earth .

From time to time

our trembling glances fall

into their depths ,

but quickly

turn away .

And he, the walker, rises

from the dust and looks at us ,

and now it seems, for the first time ,

his eyes greet us with kind blue light .

He smiles warmly to us each, and also ,

so it seems, to those

whom each of us carries inside .

Soundlessly, with lips alone ,

he whispers: Thank you .

Then turns, removes his clothes ,

and here now he is

naked. His body is

so white ,

human .

And down he goes

into the pit

he dug, and lies

there on his back, and

puts his arms

along his sides, and shuts

his eyes .

We stand .

Time comes

and starts

to rush: the cobbler

and his midwife

help the teacher

to remove his shoes .

The woman in the nets

and her friend the duke ,

hand in hand, fleet fingered—