From the darkness of the sea, from the rotten wood that still keeps my skeleton afloat – I speak. My voice comes not from lips, but from the depths of my gut. For there is no human language left here. Only… memory and flesh.
I have forgotten how the land smells.
Forgotten how my name sounds.
Here, everyone is not a person, but an organ of survival:
Skin – for protection, fingernails – for clutching,
A mouth – for curses or for meat.
At night, the sea snores and tosses –
I fear it may yet swallow us whole.
We do not so much fight – as we leak away in time.
Bodies that whispered of rescue only yesterday,
Today become food.
I have seen death arrive silently,
Without asking permission.
I have seen hope weeping when the sun rises,
And there is no rescue ship – again.
Little Jean was delirious…
He thought he saw grapes.
But in reality – they were his father’s eyes, which no longer blink.
Someone said: “Look! Sails out there!”
And we gathered together.
For the first time – together. Not like beasts,
But like those who are no longer afraid.
I raised my hand. Not to scream – but to simply be.
To call myself alive one more time.
If only for a moment. If only on this raft,
Which has long ceased to carry us –
And is simply waiting to see who will be the first to give up.
The Raft of the Medusa
20