“Would it be easier to say that the half bleeding eyes from under the wall stared at me for years” – Nayana Nair

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And if we were searching for names,
that is, if we still believe in names,
we could definitely call the bird
something more simple,
something that doesn’t take
more than a breath.
But in this workshop
where the ones made of ink,
all sit under one light
and practice folding the world
always into something broken and half.
We save our simple breath
and only give out songs
that try to say nothing.

The half head of bird
the half rays of sun,
the outline of a worker
where his shadow used to be,
the almost afternoon –
they all talk to each other
or we talk through them, to them,
though they are gone and hear nothing.

We eat up paper, leaving no space for truth.
We imagine that the wall never built, never fell.
With our imaginary hands we hold some sky.
We make our copies and place it in every shoe,
every bed of the world and learn
to fold the world in new ways again.
The folds, the words like maze leading nowhere
“the bird born out of cries for rain”,
“the bird who knew most about sun”,
“the bird who has a human stuck in his throat”-
hides the bird, hides the human, even the sun.

Give away nothing we beg
our crude redundant creations
as our hands worship the garments,
the canopies, the caves,
and the shredding machine
among other instruments of hiding.
We do not know how to touch
the skin of this world,
if not through what is gone.