THE MONUMENT ERECTED MAN-MADE…
On the verge of perception, measured beats are heard. The bell, the bellow of the cannon... no, it’s the blows of a chisel on a stone. Gradually, day after day, sunlight is breaking through the darkness. The roar of the streets, the hubbub of workers and this unbearable clinking of coins somewhere below. It is all hammering like an intolerable itching in the head, but there are no hands to relieve it, nor the head itself. There is only a lightening void… The ringing void is replaced by the searing heat. It is as if the sun is flowing through me, leaving its bright golden streams on the skin. There now, the legs have gained their former strength, and the chest in the uniform caftan is no longer tightened by the odd band. The hands can again feel the tension of the muscles and the touch of coarse cloth. The shell is being broken by the heart beats; the sunlight is hitting the eyes that have long grown unaccustomed to it. I am back on Russian land. The hubbub of the crowd and enthusiastic shouts are being heard from the food stalls. The wind off the lake is carrying ashore the squawking of seagulls and the horns of ships. It is so good to be back home! Again, the roar, the endless hum of people. One can hear from everywhere, “War! War!” Children’s laughter is no longer heard; more and more often, people are moving on crutches or even in wheelchairs. The red wave is covering their minds, spilling over the dam of patience and crashing the old regime. “For the Revolution!” people with scarlet bandages on their hands are shouting. The wave is sweeping me away, too. The sword is broken, arms and legs are crippled, and all that remains of my second birth is resting in a shady courtyard among the metal debris. Winters pass, and so do rainy autumns, as if nature is crying over those killed in the muzzle of wars. However, a sunny day also comes, people thaw out from the troubles suffered and recall their origins. That is how they found me at the back of the museum. They washed me of the stuck leaves, tore off the grass entangled in the hair, and re-erected me over the city again. There was a church behind me, the only one familiar to the eye, and even that one without a cross. How this world has changed, how the people in it have changed… Another war died down; the Finns came to this city as invaders but did not stay for long. The sky is shining again, the buckles on school uniforms of children running to school are shining again. I have been transported to the shore of the lake. It felt then as if I were back in those old days when dense forests stretched out here, and my subjects were equipping the first workshops of the plant. A faithful sword is lying in the hand, the wind is ruffling bronze curls, and an unknown path is awaiting ahead. However, once a year, He is covered by a sailor’s jacket which local graduates put on the Tsar. Well, even the Tsar can have a good time sometimes. Standing still is very tiring, and these antics prevent one from sinking into the eternal sleep of the mind.