All language subtitles for Gli ultimi giorni dell_umanita (2022_ Enrico Ghezzi_ Alessandro Gagliardo)

It's this aquarium
of what's missing.

Blind.

How blind!

How blind are the creatures
who tread upon this earth!

They dance without knowing why.

Oh to be a Red Indian,

ready in an instant,
riding a swift horse,

thundering again and again
over the thundering earth,

until you let the spurs go,
for there were no spurs,

until you cast off the reins,
for there were no reins,

and scarcely seeing the land ahead
as close-cropped scrub

already without horse’s neck
and horse’s head!

We won't know how
to think about anything...

I want to film the film.

No, get lost! Film the other one.

There's only Friends there.
This is more interesting.

I don't care! Go away!

Mum, take dad away!

He always wants to film me!

And with the moon.

The blood boils,
the sap shrieks.

Don't be afraid, Aura.
I'm here. Stick with me.

We'll stay behind the shields.
Don’t be afraid, Aura.

Frame by heart.

Everything is in memory and perhaps
nothing is worthy of memory.

As in a utopia of the mystical body,

crude and farcical,
until it comes true.

Horrible in the way it makes
each of us feel after-hours

compared to the direct flow
where the live and deferred do not differ.

Always, always we shipwreck,

says a reasonable voice.

The sun embroiders little flowers

and spreads its joy
to the depths of the ravine.

It yearns to kiss the wonder
that remained well-sown.

The school where,

without waiting for the moon
and in bright daylight,

they teach gypsies to flee
with wide open eyes.

Special edition!

The one who gives the most
possesses the most.

The mathematics of God.

Good luck.
- Ok!

Hello? Yes, I'm coming…

It's great!

- Where did you get it?
- I got it from Schifano.

Can I see how you look through it?

Do you see yourself?

It's disturbing to see yourself.

I only see half…

God, I'm so ugly...

Don't you think?

Your eyes are… top!

Where did you find it?
Did Mario give you it?

- Yes, Schifano.
- He lent it to you?

It's Wims, right?
No, Wim's is more compact.

- Yes, this one pivots.
- Yes, it's better.

So it's like Wim's?

I was being ironic.

Aura, look here.

This one you know already,
it's Mario's... Schifano.

Do you remember?

Strange…

Now I'll make you rotate…

Are you inside?
- No.

Just an eye…
Now I'm there, yes…

Now no.

You're filming the ceiling…

Now I'm there.

You like it?

The weirdest effect is this…
Let's film ourselves.

There, you see.
We're filming.

There is a point
when it clicks, you see?

Straight isn't straight now.
It's upside down, you see?

We see it upside down.

There, your head has changed…

I'd just like an off-screen,
an off-screen of myself.

I would need it there…
me in grey, from above.

That will be enough.

20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25...

It's difficult to choose because…

Choosing films
seems almost impossible,

like in a bookshop where you want
to read everything…

Or decide you'll read everything…

You open the newspaper,
you read the headlines…

Or the billboards near the zoo...

Lilli Carati's first porn movie…
Robocop…

Hope and Glory...

Perhaps it's better
when the film chooses you,

when you have the illusion
that it's the film that chose you.

Yes, these are my images.
This is my film.

The other day…

You see Eco, right?

I'll start speaking…

Buona visione.

It's a wish,
a demented, idiotic beginning.

It might seem demented,
no doubt it is.

Sur le passage…

of some people through
a rather short length of time.

On the passage of some people
through a rather short,

really quite short, length of time.

So I'll repeat this absurdity,

anyway we will unfortunately
meet again during these days.

We'll meet in this space,
at this time…

Not like an old icon of this voice…
that speaks neither to you,

nor to itself.
I don't know if it speaks…

Maybe it speaks us?

A beginning that is already
a return to zero.

You'll see.

You'll see a fullness,
a memory of images,

and somehow the swelling
of that short length of time,

a too short length of time,
really quite short.

It's something we learnt during
these nights, during these years,

and that we can forget,
that we can instantly unlearn,

which is, indeed, duration.
There is no duration.

And perhaps we can compare it
with that instant that is our life, your life,

that swelling of an instant
or that losing yourself in an instant

of what seems 60 years,
30, 20, 15, 50, 80…

It's already the definition
of a first moment…

Not of the beginning or the origin,

simply the moment it manifests itself,
begins to appear...

A movement that perhaps
is that of vision itself,

of one who sees their own life
as a terrible instantaneous melancholy

and, at the same time,
burns it in the belief that

an action can escape melancholia
or that plays it against itself.

An impossible movement.

A movement which is not false,
but actually...

...impossible.

My grandfather used to say:

"Life is astonishingly short.

Looking back now,
it all appears so crowded together that

I can scarcely grasp

how a young man can decide
to ride to the next village

without being afraid that,
aside from any special misfortunes,

even the time-span
of an ordinary life passing happily by

is not nearly sufficient
for such a journey".

I haven't read anything
in twenty years.

Actually, I've read very little,
as literature itself doesn't interest me.

It might seem a paradox
but there it is.

Literature is a text that interests me

only on account of its
precise construction

and because within this construction

are things, questions,
experiences that we have lived.

Literature as such,
as Literature, is of no interest to me.

Danièle still reads a bit
but I 'm no longer able to

and in fact I've never read...

I've read very few things in my life.

But in the end,
it's the same for you.

Who can say
they've really read a book?

I don't believe in this culture.

Real culture is the culture
of a Ligurian farmer we met,

who knew Dante's three Cantos
by heart,

really by heart.
He's dead now.

He was a really cultivated man.

But someone who's just read a bit...

When I pick up a book
that I read twenty years ago

I realise I hadn't really read it.

Who can say they've
really read a book,

or part of a book,
is like us,

when we finish
working with the actors

and we know by heart
The Death of Empedocles

from beginning to end.

And we know by heart
all of Vittorini's Sicilia!.

And we also know by heart
all the monologues from our last film.

This is real reading...

Not reading like the B52s did
before dropping their bombs.

And who can say
they've really seen a film?

Yes, who can say
they've really seen a film?

I know because
it took me ten years

to learn to watch a film.

And after ten years I discovered,

rewatching films I had seen
ten years before,

and even afterwards,
that I hadn't really seen them.

Because viewing them again
after ten or five years,

or even just six months,
you see a different film.

Another film entirely.

You have the impression
of never having seen it.

So let's be more modest,
beware of being...

smart asses.

Can I say something?
I don't want to defend university,

but I think at least it tries to teach
how to watch films or read books.

So why are you
so against the university?

The university
should teach you to ask questions,

which it doesn't do.

Instead it teaches you
NOT to ask questions. That it does do.

The university should work like Socrates,
but it does precisely the opposite.

- You mean maieutics.
- If you want to call it that...

It's better to not call it anything,
better to try and practice it.

How do you learn to watch a film?
How did you learn?

With patience.
It's enough to open your eyes and ears.

To watch, working with
your brain... and heart,

and your gut
and also your feet.

Let's say the tools
come after small steps...

What do you do when you look
at a hill or anything else?

The same thing.

The first time you don't see anything.

If you go to a country where people
have a different skin colour from ours...

If you go for the first time to Cairo,

the first days the human beings
on the street all look the same to you.

You need more than a day to discover

a variety much greater
than what you find in the cities

of our great countries…
what are they called now...

...our western countries.
Now we're the West.

The West, waging war against...
to save civilization.

So I was saying, the variety of
the population there for instance...

What did Cezanne do to discover

the mountain in the south of France
called Mont Sainte-Victoire?

How did he do it?

The first days, he didn't see anything.

Then he contemplated it,

observed it, saw it over and over,
he re-contemplated and meditated.

And one fine day he said:
“Look at this mountain!”

He painted it again and again,

at different times of the day,
with different techniques,

with watercolours, oils and so on,
sometimes just drawing it.

He reworked it from one perspective,
then another, then another still.

And after ten or twenty years,
he finally declared:

"Look at this mountain:
once it was fire!"

It's a question of patience…

Cezanne was a common bird
who came from Italy.

He was Italian.

Cezanne had the patience to look
and finally he began to see.

But to see, you first need to look…
And not just look: contemplate.

And a lot of patience.

And a strong political sense.

And a strong mystical sense.
Mystical.

And geographical.

Because films are like that,
like geography...

Anyone can learn to see a film,

you just need to watch it
over and over, to look.

Ask yourself questions…

Make your brain work a bit,
and your heart…

Make the effort
to forget about your self,

to not project yourself
on the screen,

not look at what's in your mind
or your sensibility,

but try to see the actual matter
and nothing else.

Not the psychological projections
that come from the people watching.

Good evening.
I have a very simple question,

I hope it's not too banal...

I've nothing against banality.

First of all I want to thank you,
because sadly I didn't know you.

I'm a Sicilian guy
who came here to Turin to study.

If I hadn't come,
I would never have met you.

I wanted to ask...
- So the university has its uses, after all…

Great, you understood completely
what I meant.

I wanted to ask a more
biographical question:

what sparked the union
between these two marvels,

meaning the two of you?

When did you first realize you could embark
on a journey with Ms. Huillet?

Probably, possibly,
and correct me if I'm wrong,

it was love,
as the guy said before,

maybe love of reality...
or of truth. Or what?

It was in 1954.
Right from the start I was madly in love

while she's still asking herself
if she's in love or not.

It was 1954.

But I was wondering...
I know it's a difficult question...

What enabled this union?

In a word, just one word.

A lot has been said,
but it's important, I think...

There's no union!
There's an enormous division between us.

I don't know... It's called love...

- Did any of the films catch fire?
- Yes.

There's a fire in the storeroom
where the Egyptian films are.

Have you called
the fire brigade, shit?

Yes, a while ago, I think.

You know what
the last image I shot was?

Everyone out! Out!

Warn the cinema! The cinema!

Shouldn't we get
everyone out of the cinema?

That's the Lilliput.
Are there people inside?

No, it's just the storeroom
with the films.

Get out!

Donatello, where are you?

Can you come and film this?
The Reposi film deposit is exploding.

They're evacuating everybody!

Move away! Please!

The storeroom with the Egyptian films
has exploded.

There are flames in the street.

I'm leaving now.

I've no more tape.

Hiya tower!

Tower up there.

Careful!

You hurt yourself today,
didn't you?

Be careful, very careful.

Why don't you draw for a bit?

Adelchi, I have to write now.

Daddy!

Where is daddy?

Tower up there.

Adelchi, please, I have to write.

Adelchi, it will break.
The lamp will break!

Why don't you play, Adelchi?

You're tired,
you shouldn't be awake.

I'll put you back to sleep.

Adelchi, you want to have a nap?
A little dodò, here on the sofa?

You've slept too little today.

You can lie down on the sofa
to have a little nap.

Take your thingy, your dummy.
Do you have it?

Lie there, be good.
Another hour of dodò.

Stay there near daddy.

Put it on the floor.

Thank you.

Go to sleep.

On your little bed.

Wait, like that you'll fall
and hurt yourself.

I don't want to communicate anything

other than a mode, a form.

I don't want to communicate anything.

A form of non communication.

Or, rather, of opposition.

But more than opposition,
I'd call it resistance.

Because opposition presupposes
being one against another,

while resistance can be more fluid,

diffuse.

And yet, more like stone.

Remaining still.

Have a little nap.

Try to sleep, you're sleepy.

Daddy writes, Adelchi has to rest
and then we go out together.

Ah, night vision. I love it!

I've realised
I'm traversed by all languages.

That I'm like the curvature
of these languages.

Which means I am
in memory of someone.

I don't know... That I am

memory.

There is war in this forest.

Not a war that has been fought,

nor one that will be,

but any war.

And the enemies who struggle here
do not exist,

unless we call them into being.

This forest, then,
and all that happens now

is outside history.

Only the unchanging shapes of fear

and doubt and death
are from our world.

After a while
the repetition of the circuit,

of the machinic situation...

The fixed machine of the camera and
the machine in movement. A fixed frame.

Actually two frames:
one in front, one behind...

We are always late.
Always too early or too late.

How is it?
Can you see?

The human body is truly
a fragile thing.

- Which scene?
- What?

Are you winding me up?

It wasn't the first time
he threw himself from the window.

But do you realize
what men are?

Wretched creatures
who are bound to die.

More wretched than worms
or last year's leaves

that are dead
without knowing it.

But men do know
and they say it.

You can't go out this way.

I was coming to see you.

Of course, one might
make a film about it.

But even if such a film succeeded in being
as incoherent and unsatisfying,

as the reality it dealt with,
it could never be more than a re-creation

as impoverished and false
as this botched tracking shot.

There is no more should-be:

being has been consumed
to the point of ceasing to exist.

The details are already
lost in the dust of time.

Who was afraid of life,
afraid of the night,

afraid of being taken,
afraid of being kept.

Nothing is true,
everything is possible.

I'll make a film!

One can do it
but one can also not do it.

What should be abolished continues,

and we continue to wear away with it.

We are engulfed. We are separated.

The years pass and we
have not changed anything.

The instant is more important
than anything else.

Ok, we're ready.

Well, so far we had ridden
the swells very cleverly.

But presently a gigantic sea happened
to take us right under the counter,

and bore us with it as it rose
-up -up as if into the sky.

I would not have believed
that any wave could rise so high.

And then down we came with a sweep,

a slide, and a plunge,
that made me feel sick and dizzy,

as if I was falling from some
lofty mountain-top in a dream.

But while we were up,
I had thrown a quick glance around

and that one glance was all sufficient.
I saw our exact position in an instant.

The Moskoe-strom whirlpool
was no more like the every day Moskoe-strom

than the whirl as you
now see it is like a mill-race.

If I had not known where we were,
and what we had to expect,

I should not have recognised
the place at all.

As it was, I involuntarily
closed my eyes in horror.

The lids clenched themselves
together as if in a spasm.

It could not have been more than two minutes
afterwards until we were enveloped in foam.

The boat made
a sharp half turn to larboard,

and then shot off in its new direction
like a thunderbolt.

At the same moment
the roaring noise of the water

as completely drowned
in a kind of shrill shriek,

such a sound given out by the water-pipes
of many thousand steam-vessels.

We were now in the belt of surf
that always surrounds the whirl.

And I thought, of course, that another
moment would plunge us into the abyss,

down which we could
only see indistinctly on account

of the amazing velocity
with which we were borne along.

The boat did not seem
to sink into the water at all,

but to skim like an air-bubble
upon the surface of the surge.

Her starboard side was next the whirl,

and on the larboard arose
the world of ocean we had left.

It stood like a huge writhing wall
between us and the horizon.

It may appear strange,

but now, when we were
in the very jaws of the gulf,

I felt more composed than
when we were only approaching it.

Having made up my mind
to hope no more,

I got rid of a great deal of that terror
which unmanned me at first.

I suppose it was despair
that strung my nerves.

It may look like boasting
but what I tell you is truth:

I began to reflect how magnificent
a thing it was to die in such a manner.

After a while I became possessed with the
keenest curiosity about the whirl itself.

I felt a wish to explore its depths,
even at the sacrifice I was going to make.

My principal grief was
that I should never be able

to tell my old companions on shore
about the mysteries I should see.

These, no doubt, were singular fancies
to occupy a man's mind in such extremity.

And I have often thought since,
that the revolutions of the boat

might have rendered me
a little light-headed.

If you have never been at sea
in a heavy gale,

you can form no idea
of the confusion of mind occasioned

by the wind and the spray together.

They blind, deafen
and strangle you,

and take away all power
of action or reflection.

How often we made the circuit
of the belt it is impossible to say.

We careered round and round
for perhaps an hour,

flying rather than floating,

getting gradually more and more
into the middle of the surge,

and then nearer and nearer
to its horrible inner edge.

As I felt the sickening sweep
of the descent,

I had instinctively tightened my hold
upon the barrel and closed my eyes.

For some seconds I dared not open them
while I expected instant destruction

and wondered that I was not already
in my death-struggles with the water.

But moment after moment elapsed.
I still lived.

The sense of falling had ceased.

The motion of the vessel seemed much as
it'd been before while in the belt of foam.

Never shall I forget the sensations
of awe, horror and admiration

with which I gazed about me.

The boat appeared to be hanging,
as if by magic,

midway down, upon the interior surface of a
funnel vast in circumference, prodigious in depth.

The general burst of terrific
grandeur was all that I beheld.

Still I could make out nothing distinctly,

on account of a thick mist in which
everything there was enveloped,

and over which there hung
a magnificent rainbow,

like that narrow and
tottering bridge which Mussulmen say

is the only pathway
between Time and Eternity.

But the yell that went up
to the Heavens from out of that mist,

I dare not attempt to describe.

Our first slide into the abyss itself,
from the belt of foam above,

had carried us to a great
distance down the slope.

But our farther descent was
by no means proportionate.

Round and round we swept
not with any uniform movement,

but in dizzying swings and jerks,

that sent us sometimes
only a few hundred feet,

sometimes nearly the complete
circuit of the whirl.

Our progress downward,
at each revolution,

was slow, but very perceptible.

I have already described
the unnatural curiosity

which had taken the place
of my original terrors.

It appeared to grow upon me

as I drew nearer and nearer
to my dreadful doom.

I now began to watch,
with a strange interest,

the numerous things
that floated in our company.

I must have been delirious

for I even sought amusement
in speculating upon the relative velocities

of their several descents
toward the foam below.

It was not a new terror
that thus affected me,

but the dawn of
a more exciting hope.

This hope arose partly from memory,
and partly from present observation.

I called to mind the great variety of
buoyant matter strewing the Lofoden coast.

The greater number of the articles were
shattered in the most extraordinary way,

so chafed and roughened as to have
the appearance of being full of splinters.

But I distinctly recollected that
some of them were not disfigured at all.

I no longer hesitated what to do.

I resolved to lash myself securely
to the water cask upon which I now held,

to cut it loose from the counter,
and to throw myself with it into the water.

I fastened myself to the cask by means
of the lashings securing it to the counter,

and precipitated myself into the sea,
without another moment's hesitation.

On the bank of the river
evening began once again

and caresses, and the importance
of a world without importance.

Just as the eyes have
a blurred vision of many things

and can clearly see only one,

so the will can strive only
imperfectly toward diverse objects

and can completely
love only one at a time.

Nobody counted on the future.

Pinch him somewhere.

I heard something.

Mummy, his teeth are so yellow.

Daddy.

I want my daddy.

Enrico, can you stop
with this nonsense!

No infinite conversation.

Let a flower fall to the ground.

Don't gather up that flower:

in it is the sweet oblivion
of all the days long gone,

and all the frenzied joy
of your future ruin.

All is there.
The play of fire and fate,

and only in the bitter hour of insults

from an irrevocable distance

glimmers a sad angel...

It's a kind of mental reverse shot

of what we see.

Above all, the place of freedom

is the place of the desire
to be in that place,

that can't fulfil itself,
that can't be.

Rarely have we felt how cinema,
right from the beginning,

was a kind of extreme
phantom of desire

and at the same time almost a confirmation
of how much desire is itself a phantom.

The desire to see,
to go beyond the limits of the frame,

to be the one who sees
or the thing seen

that it belongs to us
as desire

and not as satisfaction.

You have to be alert and strong.
We don't have time to fear death.

And I will die

because until now everything

that I hate

has conspired

to chain me down.

Welcome...

To Hotel infinity.

Sorry...
Can't you hear the translation?

Beware of the beyond-the-bomb intensity

of these images

forever contaminated
and contaminating.

Provided we don't always wish
to recognize ourselves as subjects

who know everything or even,
more pathetically, something.

I don't know... they're just stains,
I really don't know what to say.

And time, my delay,
my endemic after hours,

has done a good job,

because white is beautiful,
like the black of this night in here,

even if outside
there's a full moon, enchanting,

ready to enchant itself,
freeze itself

and stay like that
in a freeze frame for all eternity.

Is it that night moves us?

Delay announcement:

Train no. 340

will be delayed by 79 years.

All skeletons in the station
are kindly asked to leave.

Everything they touch becomes time,

becomes action,

waiting and hope.

Even their dying is something.

I've gotta go.

I... I've come from far away.

That's why I've got to go
far away from here.

Look at that one writhing around.

No wonder,
if he’s been shot in the stomach.

Don't go too close, you never know
what diseases they might be spreading.

Oh God, I’ve given refreshment
to so many sufferers already!

Nothing could have kept us
from being here in person.

What did I tell you!
She turns up everywhere she isn’t wanted.

How peaceful they look, lying there!

Can't one ever be
among one’s own kind?

Wishing to determine
the exact time

a tree growing
in a forest requires

to be transformed
into a newspaper,

the proprietor of a paper mill
in the Harz Mountains provided

the spark for an interesting experiment:

At 7.35 am,

in the nearby forest,
he had three trees felled

which, after the bark was removed,
were transported to his pulp mill.

The conversion
of the three trunks

into liquid wood pulp
was so swift

that by 9.39 am
the first roll of newsprint

emerged from the machine.

And by 11 am
the newspaper

was for sale on the street.

So it took only
3 hours 25 minutes

for the public to be reading
the latest news

printed on material

produced from trees
on whose branches

the birds

had still been chirping
that very morning.

Special edition!

So, it’s now 5 pm

and the answer has come.

The echo of my bloodstained insanity,

and nothing more
than this sound

reaches me now
from a devastated creation.

This sound
through which

ten million dying men

accuse me of still being alive.

I who had the eyes
to see the world like this

with a vision so blindingly precise

that it became what I saw.

If this was heaven's idea of justice,

it was surely unjust
not to have destroyed me first!

Did I deserve to see fullfilled
my mortal anguish

in front of life?

What is it
that breeds in my nights?

Why was I chosen

only to vindicate Thersites
and not to dishonour Achilles?

Why was I not granted
the physical strength

to free this planet from
its sins with a single axe blow?

Why was I not granted
the intellectual power

to compel a raped humanity
to start screaming?

Why

wasn't my cry of protest stronger
than this shrill command

that held dominion
over the souls of an entire globe?

I have preserved documents
for an epoch

that will no longer comprehend them,

or will be so remote
from what is happening now

that they will say I forged them.

But no! The day
won't come to say this,

there will never be
such a time.

I have written a tragedy

whose doomed hero
is humanity

and whose tragic conflict,
that of the world with nature,

ends with death.

Alas!

Because it has no hero
other than humanity,

this drama
will sadly have no audience!

But what was it
that caused the death

of my tragic hero?

He was a hero
destroyed by a situation

that afflicted him with euphoria

and at the same time
with compulsion.

Is there a guilty party?

No!

Otherwise there would be avengers.
Otherwise humanity, my hero,

would have avoided the curse
of being enslaved by its means

and martyred by what
it took to be necessity.

What did you die for?

If only, at the moment of your sacrifice,
you had known about the profits

accumulating in spite of...
no, on account of that sacrifice!

Growing fat on it!

For never, until this unresolved
war of machines,

have there been such
monstrous war profits.

And you!

Winners

or losers!

You have lost the war

from which your murderers profited.

And if someone
had whispered to the Devil

that in the first year
of the war alone,

a petroleum refinery
would achieve an increase in net profits

of 137%
on its total share-capital?

The bank a net profit
of 19 million crowns?

And that profiteers speculating
in meat, sugar, alcohol, flour,

rubber, wool, iron,
ink and weapons

would be compensated a hundredfold
for the devaluation of others' blood?

The Devil himself
would have advocated

for a renunciatory peace!

And that's why you lay
for four years in mud and slime.

They wanted you to stay alive

for they hadn't stolen
enough in their banks,

lied enough in their newspapers,
oppressed enough in their offices,

abused humanity enough,

they had not yet danced
until Ash Wednesday and Lent

for this tragic Carnival

where men died before
the eyes of a war correspondent

and the butchers

have become
Doctors of Philosophy honoris causa!

If only we managed
to survive this adventure,

however afflicted,
impoverished, aged

and if only the magic
of divine retribution

could give us the power to call
them to account, one by one,

those ring leaders of universal crime
who always get away with it.

And if we could lock them in their churches
and, just as they did to the old Serbians,

have every 10th man draw
his death sentence by lot!

But then not kill them... no.
Just slap their faces!

And say to them:

so, didn’t know you,
didn’t you suspect,

that after declaring war,

among the million horrific
and ignominious consequences,

could be children without milk?
Horses without oats?

So, couldn't you fathom the misery
contained in a single hour of anguish

of a captivity that will last for years?

Of a sigh of longing,
a love defiled, torn asunder, murdered?

And didn't you realise
how the tragedy turned into farce?

Or more precisely,

for a combination
of modern monstrosity

and absurdly antiquated conventions,

into operetta!

One of those repulsive modern operettas,

whose libretto is an insult
and its music pure torture?

Under the mantle of technology,

hysteria overwhelms nature.
Newsprint mobilizes weapons.

The rotary press made cripples of us all
even before we succumbed to cannon fire.

Weren't all the realms
of imagination abandoned,

when that manifesto
declared war on the inhabited earth?

Not that the press set
the engines of death in motion...

But it emptied our hearts!

And made us incapable
of imagining what it would be like.

That is her responsibility in the war!

And from the wine of her
fornication all nations have drunk,

and the kings of the earth
have fornicated with her.

And we fell through the fault
of this Whore of Babylon

who in all tongues persuaded us
we were enemies and must wage war!

And you, the victims,
you didn't rise up against this plan?

You, down there,
you, who have been murdered,

who have been cheated,
couldn't you rise up against this perfidy?

How could you tolerate the freedom,
the frolicking of those press strategists,

parasites and buffoons, while enduring
your own misery and coercion?

Couldn't you have deserted
to join the holy war

to liberate us at home
from our mortal enemy

who day after day
bombarded our brains with lies?

They sold your skins
on the world market

but also from our skin,
their cunning fashioned wallets.

But you had weapons,
yet you did not march on the hinterland?

You did not turn from the field of shame
to launch a more honorable war

to save both us and yourselves?

And now, dead,
you do not rise from your mass graves

to call the whole pack of scumbags
to account?

To haunt their sleep with
the distorted grimace of your last breath,

with the mask of a youth
doomed by this orchestrated insanity!

Arise and confront them.

Jolt them from sleep
with the scream of your agony!

They were capable of embracing women

the very night following
the day they slaughtered you!

Save us from them,
from a peace

that contaminates us with their proximity!

Spare us the pain of having to shake
hands with veteran military judges,

of meeting executioners
returned to civilian life.

Help!

You, the massacred!

Help me!

That I don’t have to live
among men

who ordered hearts to cease beating
and mothers’ hair to turn white!

For as sure as I'm standing here,

only a miracle can redeem

this horror!

Wake from your frozen state!

Step forward!

No, it is not for your death,
but for what you lived through

that I wish to take vengeance
on those who forced it upon you!

I have cast them as shadows.
The shadows that they are

and that they lyingly wanted
to transform into a semblance of life!

I have stripped them of their flesh!

But as to the thoughts
behind their stupidity,

the impulses
behind their depravity,

the awful rhythm
of their nullity

to these I have given bodies
and I have made them act it all out.

If a phonograph had
recorded the voice of this epoch,

the outer truth
would have belied the inner

and the ear
would have recognized neither.

So time renders
reality unrecognizable

and would grant amnesty
even to the greatest crime

ever committed under the heavens.

But I have preserved the essence!

My ear has uncovered
the sound of their actions.

My eye the gesture
of what was spoken.

And my voice,
even when merely quoting,

has caught the keynote
of the era for all time.

And if the times
no longer listened,

could a Being above them
be capable of listening?

The tragedy, composed
of scenes of humanity's decomposition,

I have taken it
upon myself

so that it may be heard by a spirit
that takes pity on the victims

even if it has renounced forever
all contact with a human ear.

Let it hear the keynote of these times,
the echo of my bloodthirsty obsession

which makes me complicit…

The onlookers go rigid
when the train goes past.

Enraptured by this sight,
he woke up.

Good morning!

We're going to be late...

Good morning...

What is it?

She is sleepy...

No good morning?

You are so sleepy.

Are you actually scared?

Don't be afraid.

Come on, eat!

Did you spill it on yourself?

We are going down. Aura?

Come on!

A nice little shower, eh?

Aura! Let's go.
Hold on to me.

Aura, closer, otherwise we'll get wet.

Do you know
who's here, Aura? It's...

Look, I hear you.

Although I don't see you...