Dead Poets, Brooms and Inspiration

This was something that we kept talking about, there were incessant rumors that we were going to do something about it, that we needed to give them some kind of attention, a recognition long due, whether it was through critical articles, films, translation, or by simply going to their grave sites and reading their own works back to them, out loud, in our diverse, dynamic voices, that finally broke the silence, and I wonder how did the readings reverberate, resound in their deep memory that has become ours, if they heard our low voices, if they saw us standing there on the verge, on the borders of the Pantheon, never quite inside and never quite outside, flowers in our hands, reciting repeating those words that they wrote down a century ago, which they uttered in dead silence and which dropped one by one into the soil, this indomitable land that we tread upon, only to germinate, to ferment and mature, to build an underground tunnel that would one day channel all that energy and all that electricity pushing out out out into the light, yes, yes, these dead women, these dark and at the same time luminous women whose intellect, whose persistence and whose grace illuminates the path of another generation of women from a different epoch, a different time, yes, finally these dead women are properly remembered, a moment of reprieve -- indeed -- thank you -- շնորհակալություն