Still from The Turin Horse ~ Bela Tarr
“Fly away. Fly away Iskandor” said the black and fluttering bird at my shoulder, “The world has turned; you are no longer.”
They beat me with their fists – on and on.
Black fluttering in my eyes, my lips skin tight with swelling, my teeth making the insides of my mouth bleed where they hit.
Black pain that in the absence of light, they could not perform during the day, could not allow me to look them in the face so great was their fear of my witchcraft.
Black is not a colour, it is the absence of light, but these are only words and words run out in the presence of the thought that I was going to be killed – slowly – not murdered but executed.
Black the days too, since they left me in my room, my hands and ankles tied to something immovable and my eyes bound from light.
I would not die, even when the pain wished it to be true, I could not, I did not know how.
They beat me with their fists – on and on.
Black fluttering in my eyes, my lips skin tight with swelling, my teeth making the insides of my mouth bleed where they hit.
Black pain that in the absence of light, they could not perform during the day, could not allow me to look them in the face so great was their fear of my witchcraft.
Black is not a colour, it is the absence of light, but these are only words and words run out in the presence of the thought that I was going to be killed – slowly – not murdered but executed.
Black the days too, since they left me in my room, my hands and ankles tied to something immovable and my eyes bound from light.
I would not die, even when the pain wished it to be true, I could not, I did not know how.
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