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Poem

Toshio Nakae

A HOUSE FOR STARS

    Without the help of any classical designer or avant-garde architect, a house is built somewhere in a corner of the sky.
    With no sound of a hammer and with no concrete mixer, a house is built.
    Without a fence or walls and without even land, things and expenses are only lavishly wasted in the far distance.
    A bare, boundless night garden. A tiny, empty, landless house. Nothing but the crystallized fruit of sighs, unapproved, without a roof, without pillars, without a steel frame. Cold, cold meaninglessness.
    House-shaped crystals of countless trembling sighs. Set apart without roads, they constitute a city.

    Not to live in that house in that city, not to rest in that house, but to get angry in that house, only to get angry, life was necessary in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Life was necessary in Auschwitz and Stalingrad.
    And yet, that city where no visitors are. That house. The house where only stars live, a house for stars, a house for human sighs.
    It will evaporate in anger. A house that beautifully arouses an illusion just as a faint, faint dream does at the end of despair.

A HOUSE FOR STARS

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A HOUSE FOR STARS

    Without the help of any classical designer or avant-garde architect, a house is built somewhere in a corner of the sky.
    With no sound of a hammer and with no concrete mixer, a house is built.
    Without a fence or walls and without even land, things and expenses are only lavishly wasted in the far distance.
    A bare, boundless night garden. A tiny, empty, landless house. Nothing but the crystallized fruit of sighs, unapproved, without a roof, without pillars, without a steel frame. Cold, cold meaninglessness.
    House-shaped crystals of countless trembling sighs. Set apart without roads, they constitute a city.

    Not to live in that house in that city, not to rest in that house, but to get angry in that house, only to get angry, life was necessary in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Life was necessary in Auschwitz and Stalingrad.
    And yet, that city where no visitors are. That house. The house where only stars live, a house for stars, a house for human sighs.
    It will evaporate in anger. A house that beautifully arouses an illusion just as a faint, faint dream does at the end of despair.

A HOUSE FOR STARS

    Without the help of any classical designer or avant-garde architect, a house is built somewhere in a corner of the sky.
    With no sound of a hammer and with no concrete mixer, a house is built.
    Without a fence or walls and without even land, things and expenses are only lavishly wasted in the far distance.
    A bare, boundless night garden. A tiny, empty, landless house. Nothing but the crystallized fruit of sighs, unapproved, without a roof, without pillars, without a steel frame. Cold, cold meaninglessness.
    House-shaped crystals of countless trembling sighs. Set apart without roads, they constitute a city.

    Not to live in that house in that city, not to rest in that house, but to get angry in that house, only to get angry, life was necessary in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Life was necessary in Auschwitz and Stalingrad.
    And yet, that city where no visitors are. That house. The house where only stars live, a house for stars, a house for human sighs.
    It will evaporate in anger. A house that beautifully arouses an illusion just as a faint, faint dream does at the end of despair.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère