Gardens of Horror
It’s hot. Parasols open, we look for shadows when we care for ourselves. In the gardens, paddling pools bloom, children run through the water sprinklers. Birds look for puddles that form, bumblebees, butterflies. Trees fan a little air and throw shadow blobs into the merciless sunshine. Dragonflies buzz across the precious garden ponds….
And everywhere around concrete and stone, hot-heated materials that pass on the stored heat night after night. Cars seem to glow, engines heat up, the hot air wafts from the stoves and barbecue areas.
And they build the gardens of horror. Easy to clean, but for whom? Their own comfort is declared aesthetics, stones are locked into cages, hard slabs cover the earth, grey and clean, they border houses in front of which once lilacs scented, hydrangeas and rhododendrons bloomed. The owners of the heartlessness sit neatly in the midst of concrete and make me afraid. The order-loving owners own our air, our shadow, they give it away generously.
Through the heat, the cargoes 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 the gardens of horror. They are not interested in the preciousness of shadows, bees, air and birds; the melting of poles, ozone levels and fine dust do not belong to their shared responsibility. Cleanliness on comfortable ground, so that they can travel in peace, to places where trees sway in the wind, laugh pigeons coo and barbecue give their evening concert. My world seems to have completely lost its way to me, seems to be losing its mind and its heart, and that quite neatly.