vineri, 3 martie 2023

Ieri și azi




Newborn cry in the morning air

The past and the future are wedded there

In this wellspring of my sons and daughters

The bone and blood of living water

And, though Grandpa's hands have gone to dust,

Like Grandma's pump; reduced to rust,

Their stories quench my soul and mind

Like water from another time.





The empty hand of innocence

Transfusing street of the sorrows

And children of the wood

Hounded, shredding all veils

And winding all sheets of the dead world droning

Overturning tables laden with silver sacrificial birds

Beating goat-skin drums

Advancing with hands out-stretched

And we keep filling them with mercury, nitrate, asbestos

Baby bombs blasting blue

Scavengers picking through the ashes

Children of the mills!

Children of the junkyards!

Sleepy, illiterate, fuzzy little rats

Haunted, paint-sniffin'

Stoned out of their shaved heads

Forgotten, foraging, mystical children

Foul-mouthed, glassy eyed, hallucinating.



 „After such knowledge, what forgiveness?” (T. S. Eliot, „Gerontion”)