Spring In Bangladesh
By Julio Carrasco
You can imagine few situations as strange as returning to Bangladesh
and seeing that things haven’t moved from where you left them:
the same streets
(but empty).
Facts transpire in their way, I don’t know how to describe it
There are flowers opening and closing at undetectable speeds, and also birds
For those who return to Bangladesh, reality turns into a symptom of another less relevant issue
something like letting oneself go into the air
strolling in time is being still
These streets traveled too, in their way (I don’t know how to describe it)
Now apparently you’ve returned
and roam them, agreeably confused
you try to guess in which of them an ambush awaits you
The wind combs your eyelashes: stay calm foreigner
it’s spring in Bangladesh
and there’s a dew over everything of something that isn’t quite uncertainty, or perhaps was in another time, it doesn’t matter now:
a letting oneself be in the air
a letting oneself go in time.