Читать книгу Maps - John Freeman - Страница 12
ОглавлениеSarajevo (Summer 2016)
She pointed, two hundred meters: there. I was
fifteen. We were drinking wine outside
a bookshop. The shelling lasted
all night. The ruby-colored sunset, the river
close. The theater so crowded
people sat in one another’s laps. Bombs fell so near every
few minutes, parts of the stage splintered.
I’m leaning on a car, cool
metal, smoked glass. The actors,
she tells me, didn’t flinch, didn’t miss
a single line. The audience
didn’t move, didn’t
make a sound.
You’re here; you survived;
and you’re there —
floor shaking, streets buckle —
watching a play that
for eternity will last.