The sky low on the horizon at dawn is dark orange,
like the wildlife documentaries of my childhood,
the ones about the savannahs.
In the garden: fig trees, avocado, persimmon —
things we once saw only in shops,
now growing here,
in the middle of Europe: an African savannah.
Mediterranean, southern fruit in the north.
I am waiting for the first banana plantations in Scandinavia.
Scorched grass, dusty air that burns the eyes,
while people swarm through shopping centres,
planning new cars,
staring at the football World Cup,
stuffing their faces with pretzel sticks and crisps,
guzzling beer.
Our politicians, deals already struck,
lie and lie,
putting on plays,
each in their role, from right to left,
mixed together,
all selling the same wares:
the magic mushrooms of likeable, popular self-delusions.
Three decades ago, change might still have been possible?
Today? I doubt it — but I am no one.
I just feel that
Our sarcasm becomes a scream.
The religion of consumption
turns into blind self-destruction,
ruining the future of our own descendants,
robbing our own children and grandchildren of everything
needed for life,
squandering it all in the present.
This world here,
this age of spectacle, appetite and denial,
is built around maximising consumption:
a theatre of domination and consent,
where power and victim perform like professionals,
singing the duet
of the sadist and the one with Stockholm syndrome,
part of the same kitschy, sorrowful performance.
And
We only play our roles,
do our jobs,
tired beyond words.
It is endlessly sad.
And still we believe we can do anything;
or rather, that nothing unpleasant,
painful, uncomfortable
has to be done.
A couple of solar collectors, a wind turbine — enough.
Or now, the latest fashion: AI will solve it,
while vast new data centres
feed the climate disaster.
The usual business and greenwashing is keep going.
And we laugh, grin — lie,
at every level,
from business through politics
to the majority of voters.
The sky low on the horizon is orange.
The dust sands my cornea.
I run silently along the Danube embankment.
Hot wind ruffles the yellow grass.
The forest is still so beautiful.
I hope the trees do not know
their yellow leaves are not autumn,
but UV radiation on such a scale
that already in June
it has brought them
the hot, seasonless,
sorrowful future.
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