Emptied of essence, the dark street rivers
down to this address and the single image.
Midway through the journey, the traveller
seems stunned by self-reflection: the bronzed
face in the faded plaque of history.
Imagine language as a form of life:
by any other name, and half so sweet, a single
rose mellows on the ruined vine. Two saints,
Kyril and Methodios, standing guard outside
the house become the Bulgar Cultural Institute.
Sentinels or semioticists? One never knows…
Inside, the rooms are desolate and the walls are bare,
like a philosopher’s last thoughts, which can and could
not be spoken. This world. A word. They all
pass over into silence. All that is the case.
3, Parkgasse 18, Vienna