Poetry Survival and Hope

Marion: It must finally become serious. I've often been alone, but I've never lived alone. When I was with someone I was often happy. But the same time, it all seemed a coincidence. These people were my parents. But it could have been others. Why was this brown-eyed boy my brother and not the green-eyed boy on the opposite platform? The taxi driver's daughter was my friend. But I might as well have put my arm round a horse's neck. I was with a man in love and I might as well have left him there and gone off with the stranger I met in the street. Look at me, or don't. Give me your hand, or don't. No. Don't give me the hand, and look away. I think tonight is the new moon. No night more peaceful. No bloodshed in all the city. I've never played with anyone and yet I've never opened my eyes and thought: Now it's serious. At last it's becoming serious. So I've grown older. Was I the only one who wasn't serious? Is it our times that are not serious? I was never lonely neither when I was alone, nor with others. But I would have liked to be alone at last. Loneliness means I'm finally whole. Now I can say it as tonight, I'm at last alone. I must put an end to coincidence. The new moon of decision. I don't know if there's destiny but there's a decision. Decide! We are now the times. Not only the whole town - the whole world is taking part in our decision. We two are now more than us two. We incarnate something. We're representing the people now. And the whole place is full of those who are dreaming the same dream. We are deciding everyone's game. I am ready. Now it's your turn. You hold the game in your hand. Now or never. You need me. You will need me. There's no greater story than ours, that of man and woman. It will be a story of giants... invisible... transposable... a story of new ancestors. Look. My eyes. They are the picture of necessity, of the future of everyone in the place. Last night I dreamt of a stranger... of my man. Only with him could I be alone, open up to him, wholly open, wholly for him. Welcome him wholly into me. Surround him with the labyrinth of shared happiness. I know... it's you.

Peter Falk: [inner voice] Yellow star means death. Why did they pick yellow? Sunflowers. Van Gogh killed himself. This drawing stinks. So what? No one sees it. Someday you'll make a good drawing. I hope. I hope. I hope.