Das erste Jahr Babybuddha jetzt auf:


Then we wander (the baby sleeping, I pushing) through a large cemetery, a former spruce forest cleared by timber use (as we read on a sign at the entrance) and converted into a grove-like burial ground. Beeches and ash trees are mixed in among them, and now (on this warm February day, with a soft wind blowing), we see, shining though the dry leaves left over from last fall, large numbers of violet crocuses. The brown of the scattered leaves (they look well preserved) and the violet of the petals (they look new) are made for each other (each color captivating in itself, but it is their joint appearance that gives this grove its dignity and devotion). Above, the wind is whooshing among the crowns of the swaying trees, while below there is windless calm; only once in a while, coolwarm air drops down and covers us for a few moments. The singing of birds can only be surmised: a quiet chirping, drowned out by the whooshing of the wind in the trees, that sounds as though it were trickling out from the points of the spruce needles. We are walking through a forest and we are walking over the dead. A walk through the world of the dead that feels utterly soft. (Later, on the Cimitero Militare Italiano, where the forest opens out into a huge clearing, we stop and look out upon countless small gravestones, each of them bearing a metal plate with the date of death of soldiers killed in the World Wars. There our baby wakes up.)

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