There's a genie
from the magic lamp that is as old and powerful as the time itself, the master
of space and insignificant lives. We cannot see it; we only hear its steps. It
takes away and destroys our hopes and dreams, our hearths and homes. Only the
windmills, ships, kites, balloons and even some birds look forward to it. Its
name is Whirlwind. It comes and goes whenever it wants, takes on its wings weak
and helpless birds that don't have time to grow up and that cannot find shelter.
They believe that they would be better off on the wings of the whirlwind. They
yield to its power and set off into the unknown. Sometimes, these birds come
back. Perhaps they are afraid of what is familiar to them or they are just
running away from life, from themselves. They leave behind their young that,
with sadness in their eyes, watch them disappear into the whirlwind and wait
persistently for some new whirlwinds, hoping they will see them again. Some
birds have to fly. Everything they've got is just a memory of the burnt nest and
the whirlwind that will give them hope of finding their flock. These birds never
come back. Their first stop is a place where they can find a glimmer of hope.
There's a species of birds with extremely bright feathers - birds that aren't
meant to be in cages. They fly because they want to, and because they know where
they're flying to. They know all the whirlwinds, the old and the new ones, the
slight and the strong. They wait patiently for the day when they will fly into
the new beginning and rush to fulfill their dreams on the wings of the
whirlwind. They know their way back, the question is whether they want to
return. These birds are passed into stories and legends. When they fly away, a
part of us that has been aware that keeping them in cages was a sin is quite
content. And, then again, we look with sadness at the nests they have left
behind. Everything is too uniform and empty without them. We look forward to the
slightest whirlwind hoping that we'll see them again, so we stare at the clouds.
All we can do is wait for the carrier-pigeons.
On the wings of the whirlwind, author Suzana Stojanović,
02.17.2007.
۞
Postoji jedan duh iz
čarobne lampe star i moćan koliko i vreme, gospodar prostora i malih života. Ne
vidimo ga a čujemo samo njegove korake. Nosi i pustoši naše snove i nade, naša
gnezda i domove. Raduju mu se samo vetrenjače, lađe, zmajevi, baloni, čak i neke
ptice. Njegovo ime je Vihor. Dolazi i odlazi kad hoće, odnosi na svojim krilima
slabe i nejake ptice koje ne čekaju da odrastu i koje ne znaju da se sklone.
Veruju da će im na krilima vihora biti lepše i bolje. Prepuštaju se njegovoj
moći i odlaze u nepoznato. Ove se ptice ponekad vrate. Možda se plaše poznatog a
možda samo beže od života, od sebe. Ostavljaju za sobom svoje nejake koji ih sa
tugom u očima posmatraju kako nestaju u oblacima vihora i dugo čekaju neke nove
vihore sa nadom da će ih ponovo videti. Neke ptice jednostavno moraju da lete.
Sve što imaju samo je sećanje na spaljeno gnezdo i vihor koji će ih poneti na
put nade da će jednom pronaći svoje jato. Ove se ptice nikada ne vrate. Zaustave
se na prvoj stanici gde ima bar malo nade. Postoji jedna vrsta ptica čije je
perje previše jarko, ptice kojima nije suđeno da budu zatvorene. One lete zato
što žele da lete i znaju gde lete. Poznaju sve vihore, i stare i nove, i one
jake i one slabije. Strpljivo čekaju dan da polete u svoje novo sutra, da na
krilima vihora brzo stignu svoje snove. One znaju da se vrate samo je pitanje da
li to žele. Ove ptice postaju priče i legende. Kada odlete, deo nas, koji je
znao da je bio greh zatvarati ih, raduje se. A opet sa tugom posmatramo gnezda
koja su ostavile za sobom. Sve je suviše jednolično i prazno bez njih. Radujemo
se i najmanjem vihoru sa nadom da ćemo ih ponovo videti i dugo posmatramo
oblake. Jedino nam ostaje da čekamo pismonoše.
Na krilima
vihora, autor Suzana Stojanović, 17.02.2007.
