Garden of Exile, Jewish Museum, Kreuzberg, Berlin

Forty nine columns filled with earth arranged in a square on a slanting floor.

Olive willows grow out of the columns.

The effect is that you never get a steady footing. All vantage points give the same visual result - you're overwhelmed by towers. There is no possibility of a new, fresh perspective. No possible change of state, although you will always search for one. It reminds me of a poem I wrote back in 2005:

'Everyman in Exile'

6th March 2005

Diaspora bloom as scatterlings

for the garden of exile.

Pilgrim heart lacks native rhythm;

melancholic tongue turns taste buds bland.

The soul cries fire,

lighting the landscape of longing,

while the slave within,

whispers of returning,

self-possessed by the objective,

to no longer be the stranger wandering.

Is it true of exile that all paths must lead nowhere?