David Grossman - Falling out of time

of the earth, my pains abate

for one brief moment

and I feel and know

how life and death themselves

reach equilibrium inside me,

blissfully attuned (oh, but how

can my lips utter such vile words?!),

until like night and day, or

like the day of equinox,

when winter meets its summer,

the two mingle inside me,

granting wisdom and precision,

for which I paid a heavy price:

your life—

no, no!

A bitter,

loathsome bargain,

yet still, my girl—

allow me to say this or else

go mad — now, for the first time,

I know not only what

death is,

but also what is life,

and more than that,

I see—

TOWN CHRONICLER:

— how life and death

stand face-to-face,

cooing at each other.

How they touch,

braided with each other

at their naked roots.

How constantly they pour

and empty each into the other—

like a couple, like

two lovers—

the sap of

their existence.

TOWN CHRONICLER’S WIFE:

As they commingle,

so two rivers flow

into my confluence.

I did not know, not this way,

that life in all its fullness

is lived only there,

in borderland.

It is as though I never yet

have lived, as though all things

that happened to me

never really were, until

you—

WALKERS:

Morning broke. Thin red

clouds sailed through the sky .

We slowly rose

out of the tombs ,

stood nude

outside the wall .

And once again we thought

we saw it tremble ,

a wave, transparent ,

passing up and all along it .

We could not speak; our breath

stood still: a wall

of rock

yet also

so alive .

MIDWIFE:

A face—

TOWN CHRONICLER’S WIFE:

There

in the wall,

in the stones,

I see

a face—

TOWN CHRONICLER:

No, my dear,

look here, at me. Here

is the face,

the warm, living body,

while there—

just a mirage

begat by yearnings.

TOWN CHRONICLER’S WIFE:

The face

of a young woman,

or a man,

or a boy—

DUKE:

And it moves

and it’s

supple

and alive.

MIDWIFE:

I must be dreaming, certainly.

My God, is that a young man?

Or a boy?

Perhaps a girl ?

Girl, g-g-girl,

please look

at me …

COBBLER:

They are

imprinted

softly,

as in beeswax

or on leather—

ELDERLY MATH TEACHER:

Or in reverie?

Or in a dream? No,

no, I am not wrong:

it is a human face

I see.

WALKERS:

A child, we saw

a child’s face ,

for an instant, the hint

of his forehead, sharp chin …

We trembled, as did the child .

Waves, shards of shapes

flowed in the stones ,

bringing alive a relief

that writhes

and sways .

TOWN CHRONICLER:

Or so it seems

to hearts that crave?

That rave?

WALKERS:

Is it simply swelling

in the rock, or could it be

a child’s tiny nose?

A mouth opening wide

or grimacing? Or just

a fissure

in the cleft of rock?

A girl? Was it a girl

who loomed above him

and then vanished? Will she return?

A girlish flicker

hovered ,

dissipated ,

as if the little one had knocked

just for a moment on the doors

of actuality—

then startled .

As she fades, the boy’s face changes

right before our eyes. It turns

into the long, fine, gentle

features of a youth .

His profile turns toward us ,

slow, with endless wonderment .

He looks straight at us ,

two eyebrows

soft arches

in the stone. His eyes

black holes .

TOWN CHRONICLER:

Minute by minute they are losing

their minds. Look, people,

look: It’s a wall!

Slabs of rock!

The faces you behold

are merely

phantasms of light,

sleights of shade

and stone—

WALKERS:

But they are so

alive! They flicker

with the flash of smiles ,

with questioning and sorrow ,

as if those longing, desperate faces

wish to try out

every last expression

one more time ,

to thereby taste

the potency

of plundered feelings .

Struck by our own hearts ,

our souls wrestled ,

struggled to break free ,

out of their prison ,

to pass from here

to there … Seized

by frenzy ,

cranes in cages

were our souls ,

while in the sky

a flock of birds

passed by ,

migrating home .

TOWN CHRONICLER:

It is the longing, I am sure,

it is the longing that deranges

my own mind as well.

Listen to me, listen:

only our longing

sculpts our loved ones, living,

flickering.

Yes, there, look — there!

In the reliefs

of stone—

WALKERS:

And more than anything, the mouths .

Moving, moving constantly, gaping ,

rending, twisting ,

rounding … Perhaps

in supplication?

To whom?

Or imprecation?

Upon whom?

CENTAUR: Damn it all, if only I could be with them! If only I were there, not sitting here writing and writing! I would ram the wall and tear it down, I would break in and I would—

WALKERS:

And their bodies, are they

pushing, driving

at the wall? Fighting? Against whom?

And what? Or struggling

to thrust their way

back here?

TOWN CHRONICLER:

Or like a small child

waking, still addled,

draped in dream, beating

at his mother’s chest,

clinging,

beating, beating,

hugging …

WALKERS:

We saw an arm ,

a slender shoulder, then a knee ,

another, then two buds

sprouted, mounded ,

a young girl’s sharp new breasts .

Above them was her face ,

which slowly turned

into a smiling boy’s ,

the pair of breasts became

two babies’ faces ,

boy and girl .

Long hands were laid

and ten thin fingers

spread themselves around

the boyish face. His nose ,

it seemed, pressed up against

the dimness of a window

as he tried to

penetrate the depths

of darkness

with his gaze .

Was he trying? Did they try

to call us? Or to warn us?

Perhaps we, too ,

from there, seemed

merely faint outlines ,

fighting our way

out of solid rock—

Terror ,

terror fell upon us .

Soon it all will vanish .

We must run now ,