Gardens of horror – something that burned on my palette

It’s hot. Sunshades open, we look for shadows when we care about ourselves. Paddling pools bloom in the gardens, children run through the sprinklers. Birds look for puddles that form, bumblebees, butterflies. Trees fan a little air and throw spots of shade into the merciless sunshine. Dragonflies swish over the precious garden ponds…..
And all around it are concrete and stone, hot materials that pass on the stored heat throughout the night. Cars seem to glow, engines heat up, the hot air wafts out of the ovens and barbecue areas.
And they build the Gardens of Terror. Easy-care, but for whom? Their own comfort has become an aesthetic, stones are locked in cages, hard slabs cover the earth, grey and clean, bordering houses in front of which lilac scented, hydrangeas and rhododendrons once bloomed. The owners of the heartlessness squat neatly amidst concrete and make me fear. The order loving owners own our air, our shadow, they give it away generously.
Through the heat the charges rattle with rubble to fill up life with the clean ones, the order lovers in town and village, to rob what belongs to itself, to create itself the gardens of horror. They are not interested in the preciousness of shadows, bees, air and birds, the melting of poles, ozone values and fine dust are not their shared responsibility. Cleanliness on comfortable ground, so that they can travel in peace, where trees sway in the wind, laughing pigeons coo and barbecues give their evening concert. My world seems to have completely moved away from me, seems to lose its mind and its heart and that quite properly.

Translated with help from


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