Natalia Karjalainen

Behind the corner, inside a house that looks like the bottom of a swimming pool, there is an attic where young communists go to kill time. Along the road to the house there is a hillside full of carnations and a sky full of stars.

The gateway of the half-moon’s griefs. It blooms with verdant rose, its red fangs scratch when you go under them and Lilja always does. The eye combs through the rose thicket’s thorns, toward the juicy droplets of morning dew.

Outside the young communists wave at Lilja, who is wrapping up a green-striped marquee and smiles back. The sugar from the bun saved from the waste falls onto the asphalt, they laugh and they have a downright wonderful time right down to their marrow, the sun bows over them fully rounded and hisses.

With canvas bags packed to the hilt with something they bicycle along the ripping rippling asphalt streets, they bike to the shore with the plastic palm trees, Lilja shuts her eyes against the sun. She is one of the young communists, one who lives in the fire of the passion of her convictions, love from head to toe.

The gateway of half-moon’s griefs. It blooms with verdant rose and Lilja weaves under it, the young communists in her wake. They hold a effectual board meeting and move on to the attic, into the house that looks like the bottom of a swimming pool, they unwind their thoughts from the round windows like Lilja will be wrapping up the marquee again the day after tomorrow. The hillside full of carnations and the sky of stars, they all fall asleep in each other’s arms.

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