When we came to the Rock of Gibraltar
to establish our homes in its caves,
we discovered a beckoning landmass
a few sea miles across the tall waves.
Once our people moved in and got settled,
our bold youth built a boat to explore
the new continent, terribly eager
to set foot on its wild rugged shore.

We embarked from the Rock of Gibraltar
to examine the land we had found
where we met some most curious creatures
on the plains, and where large ones abound
we encountered some strange lanky people
with small heads and flat faces who wear
only furs they throw over their shoulders
as they freeze in the wintery air.

They inspected our clothes in amazement
and my necklace with plumes of a daw,
and when we, as we do in cold weather,
lit a fire, they all watched us in awe.
Then the sound of our flute seemed to scare them
until slowly they joined in the dance
round the campfire where some of their people
approached ours as they noticed their chance.

Some young girls have decided to stay here
with young men they have come to admire
and who'll hopefully manage to teach them
to play music, make clothes and light fire.
But the rest of us daring explorers
will return to our windswept old mount;
we embark for the Rock of Gibraltar
where our loved ones await our account.

Farewell, my dear Neanderthal! I'll miss
your rugged features, and I dread to face
a life away from you without the bliss
of sleeping safely in your tight embrace.

You have provided for me, even though
at times quite sparsely, but my thanks are due,
yet often I - I thought I'd let you know -
wondered if I meant anything to you.

The joys and woes you brought I can't describe,
and I would love to stay, I must declare,
but since the mammoths have moved north, our tribe
must follow lest we perish in your care.

No more will I lay eyes upon your caves,
your precipice, your sprinkling waterfall,
your grotto with our ancestors' cold graves
nor you; farewell, my dear Neanderthal!

At the Dawn of Man a spirit grew
who has shaped our species’ destiny;
everywhere mankind obeys the voice
of the Demon of Conformity.

He convinces all his hosts they are
part of something larger and without
value of their own, and that their group’s
welfare is what life is all about.

Those outside the group, he claims, should be
treated with suspicion since they’re all
hostile and inferior and since
they obey a different master’s call.

Even members of the group who dare
to diverge from those around them face
wrath and hatred from the demon’s hosts,
being called a traitor or disgrace.

Hosts are taught to ask no questions but
blindly follow orders and decrees
and to look away when witnessing
crime, injustice or atrocities.

Of the sacrifices he demands
lots are human; with their state of mind
his obedient hosts facilitate
all the sufferings of humankind.

But the spirit is not exorcised;
very few consider him to be
harmful since most humans are possessed
by the Demon of Conformity.

Welcome to the Neolithic! As this moment marks the birth
of civilisation, we will conquer and subdue the earth.
Over are the days of hunting, gathering and moving on,
and those primitive behaviours and techniques will soon be gone.

Now we can spread out and settle anywhere and claim the land,
killing or displacing natives so our culture can expand,
planting crops and grazing cattle on that land or, better still,
find some people who will do it while succumbing to our will.

In the days of old we followed herds and ate our share of prey
or the fruits and roots and mushrooms we located, but today
workers are receiving none of all the slices that they carve,
and land owners make a surplus that will rot while farmhands starve.

Now we can form nations that will give us an identity,
claiming lands of next-door countries as our own while bitterly
ridiculing other nations for their lack of being us
since we feel superior for reasons we will not discuss.

In the days of old we wandered where our food would take us, hence
always being ready to depart was merely common sense.
Oft we stayed in one location but moved on when things got tough;
now we're settled in a single place that's never big enough.

Now we can enslave each other for the benefit of all;
slaves who work on our plantations and obey their masters' call
feed a multitude of people, even those whose heavy hands
never have to lift a finger since they claim to own the lands.

In the days of old a slave would have provided food for one
while consuming food for one, and that is why it wasn't done.
Nowadays a slave who's working can provide, under duress,
food for thousands while consuming food for one or even less.

Now we can commit collective genocide and thus get rid
of ethnicities we loathe or who oppose our forceful bid
for their country, reassuring everybody we are right
by denying that they're human and dispatching them on sight.

In the days of old we slaughtered families and tribes whose place
we took over with our people; now, whene'er we meet a race
whose existence irritates us, we, while still the iron's hot,
have the people and equipment to exterminate the lot.

Now we can fight proper wars against the other nations who
disobey us, and whatever it may take, we'll see it through
with the rabble's sacrifices on the field of honour where
bodies lie piled up to glorify the leaders who don't care.

In the days of old we battled with the other tribes and bands
over shelter and resources that were often changing hands,
but today we fight for people we have never met or known
next to unfamiliar faces and for causes not our own.

Now we can create religions to enshrine the status quo,
to discourage any questions, to get rich through others' woe
and to soothe the rabble with the promise of an afterlife
where the humble are rewarded for their deference and strife.

In the days of old there were no masses that required control,
but today we need religion to ensure that every soul
serves their godsent master and to, most importantly by far,
justify the other blessings that have made us who we are.

After he'd spent eternity alone,
god Arivu, who was the only thing
that did exist back in the olden days,
got bored and finally decided that
he would do something with his life. He tore
some of his hairs out, rolled them in a ball
and started to create the universe.

And after all the galaxies and stars,
the planets and the satellites were shaped,
he took another look at Planet Earth
and populated it with lots of plants
and many creatures whom he brought to life.

When man came on the scene, the god ensured
they had enough to eat and oftentimes
appeared to them in human form to help
and settle petty squabbles that broke out
amongst their families or tribes. On one
of these occasions Arivu laid eyes
on Peracai, a lissom maiden who
was fetching water from the village well,
and fell in love. They married on the spot,
and Arivu saw fit to deify
the girl and have a goddess by his side.

But Peracai was hardly satisfied
with anything he had to offer her;
whatever he would give her, she'd demand
a multiple of it, be it the pearls
he used to decorate her lavish crown
or all the marble for the temples that
he built for her. While he looked after man,
she craved the little they possessed and claimed
that as a goddess she's entitled to
whatever she desires without regard
for humans and their sufferings and deaths.

Soon Peracai found out she was with child,
and she devised a plan to rule mankind,
helped by the son she carried, and one night
she poisoned Arivu with hemlock wine.

The widowed pregnant goddess afterwards
travelled the world, instructing every tribe
in worship, pray'r and sacrifice to her,
with her instructions being different for
each of the tribes, while stressing that the way
to worship her would have to be observed
in every detail. Every family
each year would have to sacrifice at least
twelve cows; who did not have them was allowed
to sacrifice a human in their stead.
‘But we shall starve!’ some chiefs entreated her,
to which the goddess callously replied,
‘The more you sacrifice to me, the more
I'll give you in return,’ but failed to state
the nature of the blessings she'd bestow.
‘And once he is a man, I'll send my son
to help you with your problems and to cope
with any difficulties you may face.’

She named her son Veruppu, and she taught
him that the Earth was theirs with everything
that lived on it. They saw their cattle herds
and slave gangs grow each year when humans brought
their offerings, and when he had grown up,
she sent him to the villages and tribes,
intending to divert their anger from
the unloved goddess to their fellowmen.

And so he waded through the corpses of
the famine victims till he reached the tribes,
and he informed the men about the true
reasons for all their sufferings and pain,
which were, according to his mother, but
the sins of their respective neighbours who
worshipped her incorrectly and who sneaked
into their sheds at night to milk their cows
and steal their eggs; ‘Just look at them,’ he urged,
‘they're different from yourselves - in fact, they are
not even really human, and as long
as they're alive and dwelling next to you,
you cannot prosper nor exist in peace!’
And for a little while he'd stay to watch
the bloodshed he had caused and then move on
to the next tribe. Eventually he returned
home to his mother, to their large estate
which covers most of the entire world
and their vast herds which never will provide
milk, food or winter clothes for anyone;
possessions merely for possession's sake.

Nothing has changed. We all still spend our lives
catering for the leeches, and we blame
each other for our poverty and thrall.
Our blind compliance is her only strength,
so if we simply ceased our offerings
to Peracai and started disregarding
Veruppu's splintering advice we all
would once again live in a world of plenty
for everyone, just like in the beginning.

Where shall we find a place like home where reindeer
and aurochs graze amidst the verdant plain,
with lakes and brooks providing clean fresh water
instead of us collecting dew and rain?

We shall not gaze upon the river delta
again nor climb the rolling Dogger Hills
to watch the travels of the woolly mammoths
and practise and perfect our hunting skills.

No more we’ll see the giant oak tops sticking
out of the sandy mudflats at low tide,
and all our forests, vales, lagoons and marshes
have disappeared with all they did provide.

We’ll go no more a-fishing in the channel
where Thames and Rhine once merged with other streams,
and of our huts, our village and our people
nothing remains apart from us, it seems.

Now Doggerland is taken by the ocean
with its abundance and its beauty; thus,
though memories will stay throughout our lifetimes,
at last those images will die with us.

Laconia's sleepy centaur village woke
up to a newborn centaur's shrill first cry,
and soon the family and neighbours spoke
of nothing else, and many friends stopped by.

The little girl was much admired by all,
and everyone was happy with a brief
smile from the baby, but at evenfall
the crowd was interrupted by the chief.

'She has a high-pitched voice,' he pointed out.
The mother said, 'She may grow out of it.' -
'Centaurs, as you know well without a doubt,
are born with booming voices or unfit.

'We cannot tolerate her piercing voice.
As a community we must condemn
the girl, so in this matter you've no choice;
your daughter, I'm afraid, is one of Them!'

So she was taken to the Outside, far
beyond the village borders in distress
where she was left with Them, the ones who are
riding in what's perceived as wilderness.

His grandson asked the chief, 'Why do we need
to banish all the ones who don't conform
to narrow standards?' - 'That's how we succeed:
by sticking to the rules and to the norm.

'True centaurs have a tawny coat, fair skin
and a deep voice, respect our hierarchy
and don't ask questions; those who don't fit in
must be removed from our community.

'Thus we protect ourselves from change and fools,
hold on to our traditions and secure
our kind's survival; following these rules
for many thousand years has kept us pure.

'Shaped in the image of Kentauros, we
are the real centaurs; on the Outside there
are mutants, cannibals who'll never be
like us,' the chief warned Chiron. 'Be aware!'

It soon got dark, and Chiron, with a deft
step, sneaked out of the village (though he'd learned
no other place was safe) which few had left
of their own will, and none of whom returned.

In the pale moonlight he set out and trotted
across the gloomy forest until morning
when in the distance by a brook he spotted
a centaur village as the day was dawning.

They welcomed him as if he'd been awaited.
'Another outcast from the Sames tribe, is it?' -
'No, I'm just visiting from there,' he stated.
'Not many Sames have volunteered to visit.'

For the first time he found himself surrounded
by centaurs of all colours and complexions,
a village where variety abounded -
with no requirements, there were no rejections.

Some had dark skin and others white or spotted
coats, some were talking in falsetto voices,
some wore soft blankets, some wore fancy dotted
circlets, and all esteemed the others' choices.

'Who is your chief?' His question met with laughter.
'We all are equal; we don't lead or follow.'
He was invited to a meal whereafter
some sang a parody that praised Apollo.

He then was shown around; unlike his boring
home streets, identical as was the fashion,
no house or garden looked alike, a roaring
display of individual expression.

He learned eight other villages were lying
in the vicinity, and he decided
to visit them as well as he was trying
to understand the Outside Sames derided.

They all were different, but the centaurs' yearning
for freedom and their friendly disposition
were universal. As he was returning,
he told the chief about his expedition.

'Them are unbiased individual thinkers,
accepting others as they are, who seek
to understand the world so none wears blinkers;
they all are equal, cultured and unique.

'Nine villages that have a population
of a few thousand lie beyond our wall.
We should initiate communication
since we could learn from Them whose wits enthral.' -

'Thousands, you say?' the chief appeared alarmed.
'If Them outnumber us, they are a threat
to our civilisation. We need armed
troops who'll defend our kind without regret.'

And so he called for volunteers to save
their village from its imminent demise,
reminded them to be prepared and brave
and stressed that they must catch Them by surprise.

'We can't afford to let Them get a turn
nor any of those heathens to survive;
all of their cursed villages must burn
and none, adult or child, be left alive.'

Each volunteer approached the holy flame,
held by the chief, to set his torch alight,
and soon the task force, to the crowd's acclaim,
galloped into the silence of the night.

1.

Oh lost! Oh lost! I nevermore will sing,
no more my lyre shall please another ear:
as she I played for is no longer here,
I'll never touch a body nor a string.

They took my love away from me to bring
her to the underworld, the place of fear.
They made her as a shadow disappear -
none of Life's seasons did she know but spring.

I'm rich - there was a lot for them to choose:
my gardens or my art they call divine,
and none of those I'd be afraid to lose.

But as she's gone, no joy can e'er be mine -
as she has left me, I will leave my muse:
the magic of my lyre shall now decline.

2.

The magic of my lyre shall now decline,
her noble sound shall nevermore be heard
that made in silence listen man and bird
and turned the tears of sadness into wine.

The poet's magic is no longer mine
since greater evil powers have occurred,
powers that can't be fought by sword nor word
and that forbid the sun for me to shine.

The magic of my voice has now expired
that once sent golden shivers down your spine,
the singer from his business has retired.

As for my one and only love I pine,
the only one I ever have desired,
my trembling lips won't utter any line.

3.

My trembling lips won't utter any line
till they can sing to her I love once more,
till they can meet the lips I kissed before,
till in her arms my sorrow will decline.

These yearning hands will touch no food nor wine
till they can hold the lady I adore,
till once again her beauty they'll explore
before her longing flesh will melt in mine.

I served them well, so I don't understand
what caused the faithless deities to bring
such pain and grief to their devoted friend.

Whoever heard before of such a thing?
There is no other voice throughout this land
to praise a girl, a hero, god or king.

4.

To praise a girl, a hero, god or king,
your inspiration, power and goodwill
shall be accompanied by talent still,
so singers will enjoy hearing you sing.

Then Pegasus will take you on his wing
to where the noblest artists get their skill:
he'll stamp with force upon the holy hill
and open with his hoof the poet's spring.

He flies no more, and I don't want him to
as long as to the arms of Death you cling,
though no one else can sing the way I do.

For now my heart was stabbed with Hades' sting:
this cup of passion and of love to you,
oh lost! Oh lost! I nevermore will bring.

5.

Oh lost! Oh lost! I nevermore will bring
to you my gifts of poetry and song:
I only wish that they could be as strong
as those who drew you in their fiery ring.

Oh lost! Oh lost! My breast will never cling
again to breasts that quiver as they long
for my soft touch; how could they do such wrong
to him who of their glory once did sing?

I'll lay me down until my bones be stiff
and no more life flow through this flesh of mine
to be with you: without you I can't live.

If I could only hold again this shrine
of precious love, if I could only give
my kiss to lips as warm and sweet as wine.

6.

My kiss to lips as warm and sweet as wine
I'll bring again before the dawning day;
beside my lover I will always stay,
our lucky star for evermore will shine!

From all my earthly arts I shall resign
as for my lady once again I'll play;
our timeless beauty will not fade away,
the fervour of our passion won't decline.

So come, sweet viper, let us go to sleep,
and while in peaceful dreams for her I pine,
your venom run into my body deep!

To Hades bring the burden of this shrine:
deliver now, no more to moan and weep,
my heart to one that is in need of mine.

7.

My heart to one that is in need of mine
won't come, for lack or surplus of respect
has caused my serpent servant to reject
her master's wish, and still I have to pine.

Why can I not receive this gift divine
to wax immortal by my death? In fact,
the jealous gods in every way neglect
the herald of their glory and their shine.

I praised them - in return they stole my wife,
and of the grace of those I shall not sing
who faithful artists of their song deprive.

No sacrifices neither pray'rs I'll bring
to those who took my love and spared my life;
no more to my belovèd one I'll cling.

8.

No more to my belovèd one I'll cling,
no more I'll look into her eyes so bright,
but with my weapon I'll put up the fight:
I'll get my lyre, and I will tune her string.

And once again the world shall hear me sing
the songs of gods - their mockery and spite,
their wickedness, their rancour and delight
in all the pain and sorrow that they bring.

Of their betrayal I will sing with fire,
of all the sufferings I have to bear
and all the tears of her whom I admire.

They will not let me sing of my despair,
but if they take from me my voice and lyre,
my music nevermore shall fill the air.

9.

My music nevermore shall fill the air
with marble temples or with golden rays
nor bring delight and laughter to the face
of him who listens, but why should I care?

The sound of music that now fills the air
uncovers all the malice and disgrace,
the cheating manners and the evil ways
of gods and heavens, but why should they care?

To Cerberus I'll sing a lullaby,
and as he sleeps, I will just like a thief
sneak to the underworld where her I'll spy.

Then I'll meet Hades, and before I'll leave
he has to let her go or tell me why
they took away from me my song-in-chief.

10.

They took away from me my song-in-chief
into your kingdom, and you still refuse
to let me join her; why do you abuse
your power just to make me weep and grieve?

You know yourself how hard it is to leave
your lover, but at least you never lose
your wife forever - so that's no excuse,
although your annual rendezvous are brief.

It's me she needs, and it is her I need,
so let my faithful lady leave your care,
or let me stay here lying at her feet.

If still our separation we must bear,
at least allow me now and then to meet
my swan of swans, my rose of roses fair.

11.

My swan of swans, my rose of roses fair,
how long I longed to touch, belovèd one,
your gracile body, how I longed to run
again my fingers through your golden hair.

We're free, my love: we can go anywhere,
so let's get out of here to face the sun -
forgotten be the harm that they have done
to us, and now our gladness they shall share!

Again the air is filled with cheerful sound
by him who leaves with you this cave of grief -
but notice that he must not turn around.

For if he turned his head for just a brief
moment, he'd lose the happiness he found
who neither knows submission nor relief.

12.

Who neither knows submission nor relief
until at last he gets you out of here
will go ahead, and you should follow near
till once again our freedom we'll receive.

There'll be no tears and no more need to grieve
when from the shadows' vale we disappear
to see the sun, our friends and live the dear
recovered life that soon we will achieve.

Let's go now, and if your belovèd man
does not turn round, don't think he doesn't care:
he'd have to leave his wife to Hades then.

If he looked back to see if you're still there,
the artist, losing everything again,
shall hide his art forever in despair.

13.

Shall hide his art forever in despair
the singer who is now restored to life?
With him the joyful love songs shall survive,
his lyre shall play again a merry air!

And she shall spread the tidings everywhere
that after all his struggle and his strife
her master is united with his wife,
his song of songs, his rose of roses fair!

Now look at Cerberus: he's still asleep.
Sweet dreams of life and love he may conceive
as he is resting there in slumber deep.

But still we have to cross the Styx to leave,
still one false move, and I'd be left to weep:
Oh lost! Oh lost! The world shall share my grief!

14.

Oh lost! Oh lost! The world shall share my grief
if at the gates of Hades we should fail -
I'm weak, my blood runs cold, my cheeks grow pale
to think our gladness we might not retrieve.

But none of that: our freedom we'll receive,
and over evil powers we'll prevail:
the Styx is silent, Charon will set sail,
and for the better brighter world we'll leave.

Aboard, my love! His boat waits at the pier
that'll bring us back to see the flow'rs of spring.
Are you still there? Aye, there you are, my dear!

Come back, my love, my one and everything!
She will not come - forever she'll stay here:
oh lost! oh lost! I nevermore will sing.

15.

Oh lost! Oh lost! I nevermore will sing -
the magic of my lyre shall now decline,
my trembling lips won't utter any line
to praise a girl, a hero, god or king!

Oh lost! Oh lost! I nevermore will bring
my kiss to lips as warm and sweet as wine,
my heart to one that is in need of mine,
no more to my belovèd one I'll cling.

My music nevermore shall fill the air:
they took away from me my song-in-chief,
my swan of swans, my rose of roses fair.

Who neither knows submission nor relief
shall hide his art forever in despair:
oh lost! Oh lost! The world shall share my grief!

King Minos rode his coach through Knossos
and watched the crowd at the bazaar,
bald peasants with their noble spouses
and acrobats from near and far.

And in a busy street he spotted
a carpenter who moved with grace
and stared intently at the flowing
long golden curls that framed his face.

'I want this boy,' the king demanded;
his soldiers soon found Daedalus,
and he was summoned to the palace
where Minos asked him for a kiss.

'I could not love a man,' he answered,
'not even if it meant my life;
my King, don't think me disrespectful,
but I would rather have your wife.'

With this he glanced across the courtyard;
a carpenter's dream, Pasiphaë
flaunted her flawless sylphlike body
and raised her dress for all to see.

'Talking of which,' the king imparted,
his solemn mien all sorrowful,
she, too, is strangely unresponsive
to men because she loves a bull.

'She keeps on trying to seduce him
though he won't even look at her,
and still her deviant intention
she is not willing to defer.

'Pasiphaë now does my head in
with all her whimpers and her sighs,
and I will have no peace on Gaia
unless she gets her way or dies.

'For anyone who solves this problem
to see my peace of mind restored,
for anyone prepared to help me
I have a wonderful reward:

'An earthen Linear B tablet
which I have signed myself, and this
in aeons will be worth a fortune -
if it should last that long, that is.'

So Daedalus set out and slaughtered
the most attractive cow in Crete,
hollowed her out and trussed her carcass
in which the queen abode her treat.

And when she learnt that she was pregnant,
she reassured the child within,
'Although your father is surrounded
by walls, you'll never be fenced in!'

She calved one sultry summer's evening
(after some labour pains, I trust),
but when she saw her bovine love child,
her face contorted with disgust.

The king perceived her disappointment,
'That's what I've told you ever since -
if you select a brute as father,
you can't expect to bear a prince.'

And yet Pasiphaë decided
to breast-feed it when it was born;
the first she fed it on arrival,
the other one the following morn.

It grew up in the royal gardens
and people called it Minotaur,
but as it lived on human beings
they left the island by the score.

Again the desperate king required
the help of Daedalus, 'Once more
I need you; have my golden necklace
if you can stop the Minotaur!'

So when it was asleep he started
to build a wall around the beast,
keeping his eyes skinned for the monster;
he was afraid, to say the least.

But just before Daedalus finished,
its mother had its rights secured,
'You cannot close that wall - I promised
that he would never be immured!'

Daedalus only shrugged his shoulders
and left the gap, but round the wall
he built another and another;
he didn't take a break at all.

Most gaps were leading to blind alleys;
he didn't rest a single day
until his dreadful fears subsided
the Minotaur might find the way.

'My King, the isle of Crete is safe now,'
the architect gleefully smiled;
that day Pasiphaë decided
to pay a visit to her child.

And from that day the queen was missing;
the king wept at her terebinth
and minted coins commemorating
the Lady of the Labyrinth.

Alone he had to walk his gardens,
alone he had to sleep at night -
though this had been the case already,
he turned against his acolyte,

'No matter which it was that swallowed
my wife, you have created it,
and I will have you executed
to terminate your noxious wit!'

So he was thrown into the tower
in which he had to share his cell
with Icarus who was expecting
his jaunt from life to death as well.

'It doesn't pay to spurn a monarch,'
his son remarked. 'Don't you agree?' -
'It certainly does pay,' he answered,
'I just don't like the currency!'

Two vultures nesting in the window
checked on the inmates every day:
they clearly were anticipating
a special treat being on the way.

And every time they left the tower,
Daedalus climbed up to their nest,
collecting all their giant feathers
which he was hiding in a chest.

The night before their crucifixion,
still being legally alive,
he called the guard and told him, 'Listen,
as we will be expunged at five,

'We need to talk about our future;
could we not get your torch to keep
our minds awake?' - The guard consented,
'As long as you don't oversleep.'

As soon as he was gone they acted:
they covered arms and hands in wax
and stuck the feathers in it, cursing
and ridiculing Minos Rex.

Before they jumped out of the window,
Daedalus said, 'We're safe, but shun
the lethal laser beams of Helios:
make sure you stay out of the sun!'

They flew all night. The sun was rising
as Icarus rose eagerly;
his wings caught fire, the wax was melting,
and soon he plunged into the sea.

So Icarus' example shows us
once more evocatively that
those who are easily enkindled
are very likely to get wet.

Daedalus made it to the mainland,
but still he wasn't meant to find
peace, for wherever he was going
King Minos followed close behind.

The king lay in the bath one evening
which he expected to be filled
with water through a pipe; thereafter
his foe was to be found and killed.

Upstairs was Daedalus, preparing
a kettle which he filled with oil;
he placed the kettle on the fire
and gently brought it to the boil.

I needn't tell you what has happened
when finally the bath arrived;
suffice to say King Minos perished
that night while Daedalus survived.

Thus he became the famous hero
of whom we hear in songs and books,
prevented from the love of woman
by hair growth, intellect and looks.

The sacred snow-white cows speed up their pace,
and Nerthus' carriage flies; the days of war
are over now, and warriors embrace
each other where they cruelly fought before -
the goddess now brings peace unto their shore.
The herald is approaching on his roan:
The goddess is descending from her throne!
And they all wish as they are standing by,
while sensibly the horn of peace is blown,
to see the goddess' beauty and to die.

Both men and women tremble at her grace
and want to look at her whom they adore;
the priest may lift the veil to see her face,
the chief may talk to her about the lore
and gods and battles in the days of yore.
Some ask to see her face in gentle tone,
but even when they start to beg and groan,
with none of their requests she will comply:
it is the honour of the slave alone
to see the goddess' beauty and to die.

One day the goddess has to leave this place,
exhausted from the homeliness she bore.
The slave goes with her; in the bog's wide space
he'll bathe her and remain for evermore
while Nerthus flies to Asgard. Peace is o'er:
the women and the children start to moan,
the men sneak out into the woods and hone
their battle axes and their battle cry;
their vain desire has turned their hearts to stone
to see the goddess' beauty and to die.

Take off thy veil, take off thy dress. Not shown
to men nor gods is what I see - mine own
bare hands will wash thee, and they'll rub thee dry.
Thou grantst the only wish I've ever known:
to see the goddess' beauty and to die.

- A Bohemian Odyssey -

Left on the doorstep of the gods, he never
knew who he was and what he was about,
and so he looked for ways of finding out
rather than roaming his guardians' cloud forever.

One morning, just before the Earth was rising
and after having coffee with the stars,
he packed his toothbrush and his mem'ry jars
which held the arts of dream and self-surprising.

A gentle weirdness settled on the mountains
as a new trial galaxy was hedged,
the birds went to their worlds, and fully-fledged
deities gathered daisies at the fountains.

They didn't notice him as he was crawling
past them across the pixie field with care -
or probably they did but were aware
he had to find the planet of his calling.

He took the night train to a constellation
on the horizon of the universe;
he heard men say their pray'rs and women curse
behind the stiles and trolleys at the station.

And in the middle of the bustling city
the skilful carpenters pursued their trade,
and as he watched the craft that they displayed
spoke out to him, a voice sincere and witty.

Soon he had learned their art and was respected
as one who wove his magic into ships
and carts; always a song upon his lips,
he built the chariots the prince selected.

Invited to the court, he found the beauty
of life in wealth embezzled from the mob,
but when he caught him singing on the job,
the prince himself released him from his duty.

Instead he was employed to play the lyre
before the lords, the princes and the king,
but as they picked the songs he had to sing,
he fled their world to find his mind's desire.

And after many years of frugal squand'ring
he settled in the nursery of stars
and in that galaxy of chocolate bars
gave birth to what he called the child of wand'ring.

‘Who are you? And make sure you're not mistaken,’
he whispered in his ear and gently smiled,
‘because it's easy to mislead a child
onto the path the elders would have taken.

‘You may become a carpenter or singer
because I am and let your true gifts fade;
maybe you are but choose another trade
since your old man’s a carpenter and singer.’

The autumn planets shed their wisdom lightly,
befogged in ages of the universe;
he went where gods and demigods rehearse
their judgement days and let their grace shine brightly.

He laid his son, as the last leaves were falling,
into a basket made of willow rods;
he left him on the doorstep of the gods
and sought again the planet of his calling.

After his victory Amosis held
a meeting with the priests. ‘Now, thanks to my
campaigns, we have defeated and expelled
the Hyksos, but we're still surrounded by
enemies who would love to get their hands
on Egypt's treasures and our fertile lands.

‘The Hittites and the Nubians just wait
for signs of weakness,’ the young pharaoh said,
‘so we must think of ways to shield the state
from more invasions; foreigners should dread
a dedicated army, and I fear
this is the problem, to be blunt and clear.

‘We are conscripting peasants to defend
our realm and offer little in return,
so what incentive have they when we send
them off to fight for us? We have to learn
that taking them away from home and field
turns them against us, as the past revealed.

‘What difference does it make to them if they
are subjects of a foreign nation or
of Egypt; they still have to serve and pay
their fees and tributes as they did before.
So if we order them to lift our sword,
we'll have to offer them some small reward.’

The priests objected. ‘We can’t possibly
pay all our soldiers,’ one exclaimed. ‘We've just
emerged from war, and now we'll have to see
to the restructure of the state. You must
be realistic!’ But the pharaoh said,
‘What I've in mind won't cost a slice of bread.

‘I think of fully compensating all
the commoners for their hard work and strife
by tearing down the penetrable wall
of birthright, giving them the Afterlife,
so those who can afford embalming are
able to travel on the boat with Ra.’

‘The Afterlife for peasants? That's insane!
The sacred scriptures clearly are at odds
with this idea, and no one can ordain
such edicts but the everlasting gods.’ -
‘And am I not a god myself? You'll see,’
the pharaoh claimed and issued the decree.

And since that day the commoners enjoy
the prospect of a paradise for pure
if needy subjects; nothing can destroy
their ardour as they patiently endure
all hardships and injustices they face
in expectation of the better place.

We flourished in the city that we built
to honour him whom no one can disprove,
the Aten and his only priest who gilt
his birthplace where the pharaoh chose to move
his court and where the waters of the Nile
watered our fields and gardens and the smell
of fresh-baked bread rose from the temple while
the painted barques sailed out to buy and sell.
We never shall forget the blessings of the Aten
nor the unequalled beauty found in Akhetaten.

Children were playing at the river banks
amongst the palms; at sunset we could see
the pharaoh and his family giving thanks
unto the Aten on the balcony.
We gratefully received the gifts bestowed
upon ourselves and, in the palace' shade,
watched the processions on the Royal Road
along the striking river colonnade.
We never shall forget the blessings of the Aten
nor the unequalled beauty found in Akhetaten.

But treason was not far because the priests
of the old gods wanted their business back,
poisoned the pharaoh at one of our feasts
and told the city's residents to pack.
Removed far from our homes, our lives are bleak
compared to all the glamour we knew then,
and though we are instructed not to speak
about our city, god or king again,
we never shall forget the blessings of the Aten
nor the unequalled beauty found in Akhetaten.

Today the desert winds pile up the sands
on our belovèd city of the sun;
the wilderness we turned with our own hands
into a paradise has now begun
to claim this place again, and we are barred
from ever going back to where our thoughts
remain, though we are ordered to discard
even its memory or face the courts.
But we shall not forget the blessings of the Aten
nor the unequalled beauty found in Akhetaten.

Son, the questions you are asking
are beyond your understanding;
where we're from is hard to answer,
where we go to no one knows,
and with the dismal story of our people
a child your age should not be put to sleep.

Many hundred years ago our
forefathers have roamed the country,
led their cattle to new pastures
every now and then and brought
their family or tribe along; they worshipped
the gods that their own fathers served before.

But their growing population
caused a lot of other peoples
to take over all lush pastures,
settle down and work the land
till finally no place was left where nomads
could rest and graze their cattle for a while.

Yet one family was lucky
as they were allowed to settle
on the fertile soil of Goshen
in the Kingdom of the Nile,
tax-paying subjects of a genial pharaoh;
word spread, and soon all families were there.

Over many years they managed
to gain influence and power,
even to become advisers
to the pharaoh and his court,
treasurers of the fabled gold of Egypt
and generals expanding his domain.

As the gods were feared, the priesthood
were the ones who ruled the country;
therefore Pharaoh Akhenaten
banned all gods bar one: the Sun
or Aten was to be the sole creator
in his new monotheon by the Nile.

Soon each reference to Amun
and the deities beside him
was removed, their names were chiselled
out of history; the priests
who could escape the sword went into hiding,
Thebes was deserted and its temples robbed.

Akhenaten built the city
Akhetaten for the Aten
and appointed us, his trusted
counsellors, the Aten's priests:
we were to organise the new religion,
its rituals, its creed and offerings.

Yet the subjects of the pharaoh
ridiculed his silly concept:
Why would man and beast be struggling
if there only were one god,
how could the planet's driving force of discord
have been created by one pow'r alone?

Ay, his grand vizier and uncle,
urged him to restore the other
gods and to abolish Aten;
Akhenaten wouldn't hear
of it, but then our halcyon days were over
when Akhenaten died, no one knows how.

Tutankhamun, his successor,
was a boy, so the rapacious
grand vizier now ruled the kingdom -
he brought back the ancient gods,
erased each trace and symbol of the Aten
and slew the priests who didn't get away.

We still sacrificed to Aten
in the caves where we were hiding,
but we openly refused to
worship any other gods;
though we were persecuted and imprisoned
and even killed, we never lost our faith.

As he came of age, the pharaoh
rediscovered the religion
of his father. First he worshipped
secretly and hid the priests;
when he reintroduced the cult of Aten
they murdered him, and Ay was back in charge.

He destroyed the Aten's city,
massacred the priests and servants
he could find and quickly buried
Tutankhamun; the young king
and everything remaining of the Aten
were jammed into the tomb which then was sealed.

Many of our folk suggested
that we leave the hostile kingdom,
but we had no place to go to,
so we had to stay and hide
our god from everybody else, for even
speaking of Aten meant a person's death.

As his name could not be mentioned,
the believers called him Yahweh
(‘He whose name cannot be mentioned’),
and we prayed to him each day
that he'd deliver us from persecution
and let us worship free and openly.

When the Nile turns red in springtime
and the birds sing in the palm trees
everybody knows that nature
has rung in another year
of teeming fish and overflowing harvests
that fill the granaries up to the brim.

But that year the Nile was redder
than it ever was, more shallow,
and its surface close to boiling,
teeming with dead fish, and some
Egyptians claimed it was the curse of Yahweh,
demanding that we all be put to death.

And as Egypt's drought continued,
tension rose against our people
who were blamed for flies, eclipses
and increased mortality;
our call grew stronger for a forceful leader
who would restore us to our rightful place!

Atenmoses was our high priest
who had lived in exile after
having murdered one of Amun's
priests. He now returned and said,
‘They're scared of Yahweh! We shall turn the tables
and threaten them until they let us be!’

Shortening his name to Moses,
he approached the grumpy ruler;
Ay, distracted, barely listened
to the lunatic who claimed
his god had turned the Nile to blood and even
blocked out the sun and slain their families.

Down in Midian he'd witnessed
the destruction of the harvest,
and he figured that the locusts
soon would travel to the Nile.
He prophesied, ‘Locusts will take your harvest
unless you let us worship whom we want!’

Ay was bored and yawned, but Moses,
led away by soldiers, shouted,
‘And the plague will take a member
of each family this year!’ -
They threw him into prison and forgot him,
but children died, and then the locusts came!

Rotting corpses filled the delta
and could not be moved; the locusts
darkened Egypt's skies, and no one
saw their hand before their eyes:
now Ay remembered Moses and gave order
to bring the lunatic before his throne.

‘It appears your god has power
over Egypt as he showed us;
you shall be allowed to worship
any god you like as soon
as you have cleared the fields and skies of locusts
and stopped the plague that kills our families!’

Moses, falling to his knees, gave
thanks to Yahweh, and he praised him
for the multitude of wonders
that had proved him god of gods;
he then petitioned him to end the suff'rings
of Egypt since he had achieved his goal.

Nothing happened. Moses gathered
Yahweh's other priests who helped him
to erect a stony altar
where they sacrificed a lamb;
once more they thanked their god and prayed to Yahweh
to end the drought, the locusts and the plague.

But the children kept on dying
and the locusts multiplying;
Ay got restless, and his people
chanted, ‘Kill them! Kill them now!
They either can't control their god, or Yahweh
does not have any powers after all!’

They threw stones, and nervous soldiers
waited as their tense commander
looked at Ay who slowly nodded...
‘Kill those infidels right now!’ -
Army and people raged and stormed against us:
the sole escape route left was the Red Sea!

Never looking back, we hurried
towards the shore, jumped in the water
and implored our god to help us,
but we didn't stand a chance:
the army killed our children, men and women,
the escapees were butchered by the mob.

We were swimming in our brothers'
blood, a handful of survivors,
and of those who reached the middle
of the Red Sea, many drowned;
of the ten thousands who had fled from Egypt
only a few have reached the other side.

So today we roam the desert,
nomads once again who have no
home and who must live as outcasts,
and we're bound to wander on
until we find a people who are weaker,
kill them and have a country of our own.

Why hast thou abused my faith, Lord?
After victory in battle,
fought for thee, it was my daughter
who was waiting at the door.
How couldst thou do this to thy faithful servant,
how couldst thou do this to thy people's judge?

Every time I was returning
home from battle with the laurels,
it would be my wife who's standing
at the door to greet her man,
to sling her massive arms around my shoulders
and tell me that she's happy I am back.

With her childish voice she'd ask me
if I missed her hugs and kisses
on the battlefield, and if I
killed a lot of enemies,
then she would hide my face beneath her wrinkles
and drag me up the stairs to prove my strength.

Now the Ammonites were fighting
to restore the land their fathers
populated, and I promised
that to thee I'd sacrifice
the creature who would meet me at my doorstep
if thou wouldst give them all into my hands.

Thou hast heard my earnest prayer
and delivered them, but bitter
turned the victory at Mizpah
when I saw my daughter's smile
as she awaited her belovèd father
and kissed me at the threshold of my house.

Never will her blooming body
know love's pleasures, never will her
songs delight a lover, never
will I see her smile again.
Why must it be my wife who gives me comfort,
why must it be my girl who climbs the pyre?

My Etruscan flute will call you
from your gardens to the shore
where I wait for you, desiring
to lie down with you once more.
Meet me at our secret fountain
where the buttercups abound,
for there is no man or woman
who resists the aulos' sound.

As the merchant ship is sailing
out of the Fuflunian port
with a cargo for Phoenicia
and your husband who'll escort
her as captain who has often
travelled this familiar route,
you will heed the captivating
call of my Etruscan flute.

When Aristarchus the Unheeded had
his lightbulb moment thousands of years ago,
he looked at Egypt's night sky, and he said,
'All stars are stationary, this we know.

'The Sun's position towards them, as we are
aware, remains unchanged, so I, for one,
suggest the Sun is but another star
and that the Earth revolves around the Sun.'

Few listened. Those who did came to rehearse
the arguments they had been taught before,
'We are the centre of the universe,
that's an established fact you can't ignore.'

'No evidence can ever contradict
our scientists and priests, and manifold
your unintelligent ideas conflict
with what the gods revealed in days of old.'

'You have the bold audacity to make
untenable assumptions and, with glee,
by saying Earth is not the centre, shake
the one foundation of society.'

Some checked his claim and found it to be true:
'Your argument is quite convincing, but
we don't want to be ostracised like you;
though we agree, we'll keep our mouths well shut.'

So Aristarchus soon came to the grim
realisation, though he wasn't wrong,
that his hypothesis would die with him,
remaining buried for gods know how long.

*The belief that the world is built around one's own collective identities, from Latin nos (we) and centrum.

To thee, Cardea, we look up and pray
that thou may bless the citizens of Rome;
beloved goddess of the door hinge, stay
with thy disciples in their humble home.

With Forculus and Limentinus cast
thy prized protection on thy trusted friend
while two-faced Janus closely watcheth past
and future, the beginning and the end.

Accept the whitethorn we hung o’er the door
where everything revolves around thee, keep
intruders out and slaves inside and pour
thy blessings on the children as they sleep.

Ward off all evil spirits from this place,
make sure our privacy is not infringed
upon, repel the nightmares we may face
and do not leave thy votaries unhinged.

In strangeness we walk through the garden,
discussing his fate as we go,
who granted his protégé pardon
for having supported his foe.

The mentor and friend who still brightens
my day with his stories and spin
on history’s lessons now tightens
the death grip this country is in.

We look at the waves of the Tiber
whose waters flow only one way;
once more it’s my moral fibre
that calls me to duty today.

I’m successful, and yet I would rather
preserve the republic, so I,
whom he cherished and loved like a father,
agree that the tyrant must die.

In the empty halls of Mithras
where the casual wind still plays,
statues stare into the distance
with an unrequited gaze.

Long forgotten are his temples,
scattered in the countryside
of a continent unable
to recall its former guide.

Romans brought him back from Persia;
He Who Shan’t Be Writ About
was revered across the empire
which advanced beneath his clout.

Mithras didn’t go on record
as gods do traditionally,
so his mysteries forever
will remain a mystery.

For the promise of a brighter
future, people in the know
would submit to him and gladly
celebrate the status quo.

But one day they found their loyal
saviour and protector gone,
and his congregation followed
as the restless god moved on.

Healing the blind and curing hunchbacks,
fractures, plagues and evil spirits,
Jesus Christ was busy when he
was disturbed by two young men.

John's disciples came to Jesus,
and they said, 'Our master sent us
who prepared the way for you
and whom you have now forgotten.

'In the dungeon of King Herod
he is suff'ring for his teachings:
there he never sees the daylight,
there he lives amongst the rats.

'He who prophesied our Saviour
lies in chains and wants to know if
you're the one or if Judea
has to wait for someone else.'

Jesus said, 'Go back and tell him
what you see: the blind can see now,
and the lame are swiftly walking,
and the lepers have been cleansed.

'Deaf can hear, the dead are rising,
and the poor can hear good news,
and the man is blessed forever
who takes no offence at me!’

Simon came to him with Judas,
and they said, 'Whatever happened,
John deserves to hear the answer
from yourself or your disciples.

'He has prophesied your coming
and prepared the way for you,
and if we are talking to him,
we might even save his soul.'

So they went to see the baptist
in the dungeon of King Herod,
and a soldier with a torch
led them through the narrow hall.

'I smell treachery,' a booming
voice was chanting through the darkness,
'treachery against Judea,
treachery against the world!'

'John, calm down! It's only us,
Judas Iscariot and Simon
Peter, for our master sent us
to give answer to your question.

'He whom you prepared the way for
is the Saviour and Messiah
of the world: the blind can see,
lame are walking, lepers dance.

'Deaf can hear, the dead are rising,
and the poor can hear good news,
and the man is blessed forever
who takes no offence at Him!'

'And how many has he cured?
Three, or ten, or even hundred?
Did you count the ones who still are
blind and lame and sick and dead?

'Who of those he raised from death
will from now on be immortal,
and whose thirst for right was quenched
by his talk of Heaven's realms?

'I'm not blind, and I can't see,
I'm not lame, and I can't walk,
I'm not dead, and I don't live,
and I never hear good news!

'Any mountebank heals sick
and turns water into wine,
but the saving of the world
is a bit more serious!

'I was preaching of the Saviour
who would crush the serpent's head,
who'd relieve the world of evil,
as the Lord, the Lord has promised!'

'He'll go back and see His father
to prepare His children's mansions,
and from there He will return
like a thief who comes at night!'

'We awaited the Messiah
for a thousand years, and now
the Messiah comes and tells us
we shall wait for his return?

'How much longer? Yet another
thousand years or even more?
If he has the will and power
to release, he won't delay!

‘Tell your master I would rather
sacrifice myself to Baal
than remain the servant of a
god who doesn't keep his word!'

And the thunder of his mighty
voice kept sounding through the dungeon;
thoughtfully the two disciples
left his cell and went away.

As they left, the prophet's angry
words still echoed in their hearts,
and they trembled with each forte
they remembered of his speech.

But outside the air was sweeter,
and the day was bright and sunny,
and the vineyards stood in blossom,
and their Christ was son of God.

At Calvary Mary was watching
the soldiers who hammered the nails
through the flesh of her son, and as darkness
enshrouded the mountains and vales,
she said to herself, ‘His disciples
will always remember this day;
the blood on the hands of the Saviour
can never be washed away!’

In his name, with a passionate fury,
Constantine, by Almighty’s design,
assaulted the Didyman temple
and oracle of the divine;
the priests of Apollo were tortured
to death and then left to decay;
the blood on the hands of the Saviour
can never be washed away!

In his name Charles the Great went to Verden
where the Saxons who would not submit
to Christianity had been assembled
to be judged as the monarch saw fit.
Later four and a half thousand bodies
lay headless on gory display;
the blood on the hands of the Saviour
can never be washed away!

In his name multitudes of crusaders
ventured out to rob, without qualm,
the ‘Holy Land’ from its natives,
conquer realms or extinguish Islam.
The crusades of the past killed two million
(not including crusades of today);
the blood on the hands of the Saviour
can never be washed away!

Even those who follow his doctrine
disagree about details and killed
one another about the most proper
way to worship; the Old World was filled
with the corpses of millions whose credo
diverged from the faith of the day;
the blood on the hands of the Saviour
can never be washed away!

In his name intellectual, envied
and unwanted people around
were accused of practising witchcraft;
some were burnt, some were hanged, some were drowned.
A few hundred thousand have perished
since hysteria cast her grim ray;
the blood on the hands of the Saviour
can never be washed away!

In his name his disciples from Europe
taught all nations without their request;
they massacred hundreds of millions,
took their land and made slaves of the rest.
To this day these are being exploited
by the people who prey as they pray;
the blood on the hands of the Saviour
can never be washed away!

In his name the church persecuted
the Jews for rejecting his creed
for centuries, culminating
in genocide, furthered by greed.
With Gypsies, disabled and critics
ten million were slaughtered like prey;
the blood on the hands of the Saviour
can never be washed away!

And still there are Christians who murder
because of their faith and who spew
their hate in the name of Jesus
who'll save them from what he will do
to those who won't serve him but punish
the ones who refuse to obey;
the blood on the hands of the Saviour
can never be washed away!

The king sat on his throne and raised his glass,
and all the peers around his table cheered,
he welcomed everybody of his class,
and soon the dishes that were served were cleared.
He told his most outstanding deeds to pass
the hours and often smiled with pride or sneered,
and as they got into the mood for jests,
he called his jester to amuse his guests.

The jester rang his bell, arranged his gown,
and, pointing at the king, he grinned and said,
'This man has robbed me of my cherished crown
and put a fool's cap on my head instead;
the noblest man is forced to act the clown,
meanwhile the meanest plays the country's head!'
The monarch watched his humorist perform
and giggled like a schoolgirl in the dorm.

The jester rang his bell, 'His Majesty
talked of his deeds. I'm sure he hasn't told
you he has stolen everything from me:
my garments and my treasures and my gold!
There was a time when I was just as free
and rich as he in merry days of old.'
The king enjoyed the floorshow with his train
and held his waist as if he was in pain.

The jester rang his bell with knitted brows,
'I've loved the fairest woman in the land -
we had some fields, a garden and a house.
We were a cheerful couple: hand in hand
I used to walk the meadows with my spouse,
or I would lie beside her on the strand.
Then came the king and took my loving wife;
he'll pay for this betrayal with his life!'

The monarch burst out laughing with his crew
and, choking on the wine he gulped, fell down
beneath the table while his face turned blue.
Straight his physician came, but with a frown
he felt his pulse, 'There's nothing I can do.'
The jester took his wife, his gold and crown,
and happy minstrels evermore will sing
the Ballad of the Jester and the King.

Swiftly walking hill and meadow
where my restless spirit found me,
deep in silence with my shadow,
I strolled nowards, open-eyed:
the peace of azure heavens still around me,
the whisper of the ocean by my side.

Water fairies swam their races
till the king called in his daughters,
for they should not show their faces
to a man without a tail.
The sun was melting into quiet waters,
my mind grew weary and my shadow pale.

In the woods I saw a willow
where the little brook is streaming,
and I found my hermit's pillow
in some ancient castle's walls;
there I lay down, and soon my heart was dreaming
about the fame and splendour of its halls.

And the grass turned into heather,
and a gentle breeze was blowing,
and the ruins grew together,
and the castle stood once more;
into the court the silver moon was flowing,
a blooming rosebush stood beside the door.

Scent of centuries behind us,
taste of all forbidden sweetness,
sultry visions, come and blind us,
magic of a banned desire -
assure the yearning hearts of your discreetness,
but fill the blunted souls with secret fire!

Lead us to your scarlet garden,
let us smell each luring flower;
neither punishment nor pardon
ever spoils the lover's deed.
Should for the naked fear of human power
divinities refrain from holy need?

Suddenly I heard a rattle
from a distance, coming nearer:
there, returning home from battle,
rode a tall and haughty knight.
I saw his eyes, and nothing could be clearer:
for want of flesh alone they shone so bright.

Victories and laurels counting,
he looked down on his attendants;
finally he was dismounting,
and the human was restored:
they took his banner, symbol of dependence,
they took his armour, and he kept the sword.

Then he chopped one of the longest
roses from the bush, and flying
up the stair he went: the strongest
craving had affected him.
I followed him at once, for I was dying
to meet the lady who expected him.

In her room she was rejoicing,
but not over his survival,
for another part was voicing
pleasure, nude from head to shin:
they had drowned out the noise of his arrival
and didn't even see him coming in.

Quietly he watched the lovers;
loudly they announced their passion
as they crumpled up the covers
while the knight stretched out his arm
and, following contemporary fashion,
removed their heads with expertise and calm.

As he turned, he caught me standing
in the doorway - he came leaping,
cornered me upon the landing,
and he pushed me down the stair;
from there into the courtyard I was creeping
to get away from his dismissive glare.

'Since four hundred'n'eighty-seven
years this act has been repeated
every single night, for Heaven
has no mercy on our souls!
Because our lord is vengeful and conceited,
we'll always have to play our given roles.

'How I hate his horse and saddle;
if he only would be able
to refrain from their beheadal
for one night, we'd be released!'
Thus spoke the groom and led into the stable
his master's stallion... My perception ceased.

Soon the sun flowed through the mountains,
reddening the veil of morning,
gilding all the happy fountains
and the winding little streams;
the ruins of the castle walls adorning,
he swept away sad thoughts and fearful dreams.

I recalled the foolish vision
of the curse upon the castle,
how the knight's unwise decision
caused him still this earth to roam;
then I sat down, unwrapped my breakfast parcel,
and, picking broom and daisies, I limped home.

The fairy mother told her little daughter,
‘It's time you learnt the ways we deal with man;
tonight I'll take you with me to their village,
and we will help the good ones where we can.

‘A child just perished in her sleep which happens
occasionally, and if we fairies make
it there in time, we will replace their baby
with one of ours before the parents wake.

‘Her loving parents then won't have to suffer
their newborn's loss,’ she clarified her aim.
‘But won't they notice that the child is different?’
her daughter asked. - 'No, she will look the same.’

‘When she grows older, will she not remember
in time that she'd been one of us before?’ -
‘She sometimes may experience the feeling
she's from a fairer place, but nothing more.’

‘And will the way she acts not be quite different
from humans?’ - ‘Now and then her kin may find
her odd, yet they would not suspect their children
are not their children but a different kind.

‘Changelings help humans, though they rarely notice,
because they question things and bring our range
of kindness, art and knowledge to the people;
changelings are needed so the world can change.’

She and her daughter sneaked into the bedroom.
They gently placed the changeling in the cot
and took the human child to have her buried;
they heard a noise and rushed to leave the spot.

The mother stirred. ‘I feel that something happened;
could you please see if baby is all right?’
Her husband checked the cot; he reassured her,
‘Siofra is fine,’ and kissed their girl goodnight.

The priest addressed his frightened congregation,
the children, men and women in their grief,
‘Though we are tested by the powers of darkness
we shall not waver in our firm belief!

‘We do not know why Wodan kept his silence
when the barbarians marched in and felled
his sacred Irminsul, and why the heaven
did not fall down on those who have rebelled.

‘We do not know why Donar hasn't punished
the faithless infidels, why Freyja stays
away from us, but this we know for certain
in all: the gods work in mysterious ways.

‘These unbelievers worship inside houses
their gods can't enter, and they pray to cold
and lifeless images, but in their wisdom
our gods will soon repay them a hundredfold.

‘The preachers of false gods now seem to triumph,
but we all know that in the gods' great plan
these strangers in the end will meet their downfall
and see the one true faith prevail again.

‘Wodan, in his eternal grace and mercy,
though our own land be watered with our blood,
eventually will sentence the intruders
and kill them in an even bigger flood.

‘Though we be slain today as Wodan's martyrs,
we shan't allow them to achieve their goals:
we must not bow to any graven image
to save our lives lest we should lose our souls.

‘Should we betray the ones who gently guided
our lives? How could we possibly renounce
the gods who have so generously blessed us
and mercified us on so many counts?

‘Those who submit will never see Valhalla
nor meet their kin but suffer drought and dearth;
therefore, don't cast away your life eternal
for the few years you may have left on Earth.

‘Preserve your piety; the blood of Verden
will scream out to the everlasting gods
to be avenged against the cruel invaders -
naught shall remain of them but earthly clods.

‘The blood of Verden on their hands will mark them
as long as they shall live, but like a gust
they'll soon be gone, and if they are remembered
it'll be as persecutors of the just.

‘Dying for Wodan is the greatest honour,
and entering his hall we'll feel no loss;
we'll yield our earthly lives instead of kneeling
before their man-made idols and the cross.’

Put to the sword, the dauntless congregation
used their last breath to praise the gods and pray;
four thousand Saxons proudly died as martyrs
for their unshakeable belief that day.

In a valley near the ocean
stood the city of Nagnata,
heart of commerce and devotion;
here, in Erin's thriving gem,
the Dagda lived and his inamorata
beside the shrine his people built for them.

In a mill the men were grinding
corn while bards gave their renditions
at the streamlets that were winding
through ravines down to the sea,
from near and far the traders and musicians
arrived, becoming what they strove to be.

Mansions, roads and public places
yielded its distinguished aura,
fishermen with ruddy faces
sat on stones and cast their rods,
and over them the deities' restorer,
the Dagda governed, Father of the Gods.

But one morning when the silence
of the birds engendered pity,
when the mist rolled from the highlands
and the streets were glazed with rain,
the tidings spread like wildfire through the city
that Patrick was arriving with his train.

Chanting hymns, the Lord's battalion
marched and noisily descended
while the Dagda on his stallion
Acein knew he faced his fate,
and anxiously he held his arm extended
and told his men to close the city gate,

‘With this town I have created
one last haven of traditions,
and it shan't be desecrated
by a foreign god or priest;
Nagnata is no place for Christian missions –
we shall not be invaded from the East!’

But the clerics were not mortals
of the common disposition,
and they walked right through the portals
like a host of phantoms, and
with sheer determination and ambition
they took control of every inch of land.

Patrick and his monks selected
the location where their abbey
was supposed to be erected
while the Dagda turned around,
telling his citizens, ‘Don’t let these flabby
intruders violate this holy ground!’

Yet no weapon could undo them:
knife and axe caused no destruction,
and their arrows went right through them
like a brooklet through the fen -
at night they would dismantle their construction,
but in the morning it would stand again.

Soon Nagnata lay defeated
and strange laws were promulgated.
When the belfry was completed,
the old god warned with a frown,
‘With the first bell that tolls, this celebrated
city shall perish and its captors drown!’

On that sunny Easter morning
after they had raised the steeple,
still ignoring every warning,
Patrick's monks felt they were blessed;
but as they rang the bell to call God's people,
they heard a distant rumbling from the West.

Then the sky was set in motion,
and a sudden rain cascaded
down the vale, the savage ocean
hurried inland to reshape
the valley; on a hill the Dagda aided
his friends in building boats for their escape.

And he watched the waters rising
in the city he had founded,
watched the wild and jeopardising
torrent that had been a brook,
and while the bells below his feet still sounded,
he gave his work of art the parting look.

Dolefully he took his magic
harp, and he commenced to strum it
as his city met its tragic
end; the pensive god grew pale,
and as the raging waters reached the summit,
the Dagda and his followers set sail.

- Where the hawks and crows examine
every chimney in the mountains,
only stirred by swans and salmon,
lies the surface of Lough Gill,
and on clear days their buildings and their fountains,
their streets and homes can be distinguished still.

You may see the desolated
market where they used to barter,
next to it the consecrated
shrine and abbey, ne'er to wake,
and if you hear the church bells of Nagnata,
they call you to the bottom of the lake.

Their tents extended far beyond the valley,
the smoke rose to the sky as evening fell,
and there was singing all around the campfire,
and their impetuous varlets sang as well.

Harnesses jangled as they groomed the horses,
the vivandiere danced as the men looked on;
one of the varlets said amidst their singing,
‘Girl, you must know where our young king has gone.’

The pensive king on this side of the valley
picked up some earth with hands he kept apart;
it couldn’t soothe the fever of his forehead
and failed to remedy his aching heart.

Two rosy cheeks had captured his affection
and one red mouth he'd forced himself to shun.
He closed his lips intently, ever tighter,
and turned his eyes back to the setting sun.

Their tents extended far beyond the valley,
the smoke obscured the sky as evening fell,
and there was laughter all around the campfire,
and that impetuous varlet laughed as well.

(Translation of Börries von Münchhausen’s Jenseits des Tales)

Dame Alice, stern and with aplomb,
lived lavishly, we can infer,
well-financed by the fortunes from
four husbands who'd bewidowed her.
Her stepchildren, however, stated
their deaths had been premeditated.

Accused of having killed the lot
of spouses for their money, she
in turn accused them of a plot
to blame her out of jealousy
so they could get their hands on treasures
that were not theirs by any measures.

To strengthen their convincing case,
the children claimed that she had used
witchcraft; on hearing this His Grace
Bishop of Ossory, infused
with ardour since the pope had listed
witchcraft as heresy, persisted.

He, as officials clipped his wings,
saw all attempts to gaol her fail,
but then Dame Alice pulled some strings
and had the bishop thrown in gaol.
On his release His Grace predicted
she finally would be convicted.

And proof of witchcraft soon was found
within her seaside home, below
her mansion's floorboards and around
the public house she owned, and so
authorities removed Dame Alice
from her own moneylending palace.

She was condemned without ado
as were some other ones among
her coven which included, too,
her own son William and her young
maid Petronilla, and by fire
the dame was sentenced to expire.

She hied into the skies that night,
leaving her servant girl to take
her place in history and right
her wrongs by burning at the stake,
the first of many who would suffer
this treatment as the Church got tougher.

The only ones Dame Alice brought
along with her to share the bliss
of freedom were, as we are taught,
her daughter and her incubus;
they headed for a place where witches
are not exposed to courts and snitches.

But sometimes on a rainy night,
as atmospheric currents spin,
she may, beneath the moon's dim light,
peep through the window of her inn,
reminding us of all the malice
we find in humans and Dame Alice.

Our desert ships are trailing
across the sea of sand,
thousands of camels wailing
while guided by firm hand;
thousands of merchants carry
the valuables they bought
in Fez up to the merry
city of wealth and thought.

Loaded with many a treasure
like salt and olive oil,
our camels walk at leisure
across the gritty soil;
we’ve weeks of tribulations
ahead till we’ll behold
the jewel of the nations,
the city paved with gold.

The grim Sahara threatens
trespassers with complete
annihilation, battens
on those she can defeat
and gloats when plans unravel,
but we shall follow through,
continuing to travel
from here to Timbuktu.

We trot beneath the searing
sun, but although we bake
at day we, too, are fearing
the night, and some awake
with frostbite in the morning
when sunlight hits the men,
and as the day is dawning
we’re on our way again.

Days to the next oasis,
but now a massive wall
of clouds appears. Some faces
light up, albeit not all:
the novices are waiting
for rainfall from the skies
which keeps evaporating
before our very eyes.

Our party is impeded
by sandstorms and a few
Tuaregs who soon conceded
en route to Timbuktu.
The merchants pant and swelter,
each one a weary wretch;
without relief or shelter
we make the final stretch.

But then our efforts render
us happy through and through:
in vast unequalled splendour
the glorious Timbuktu
now lies before us, yearning
to buy our goods, and then
this hub of wealth and learning
will entertain the men.

Yet after weeks of leisure,
indulgence and reprieve
and temporary pleasure,
once more we’re bound to leave
our luxury confinement
and cross the sandy waves
to Fez with a consignment
of iv'ry, gold and slaves.

No one knows his name. A native
boy of the Visayan Islands,
he had led a happy childhood
till the day another tribe
raided his village, massacred the adults
and sold the children into slavery.

After many years we find him
on the market of Malacca
where the Muslims and the Christians
buy their spices and their slaves;
his odyssey continues as he's being
sold to a Portuguese adventurer.

Ferdinand Magellan christens
his new property Enrique;
when Malacca is re-conquered
by the Portuguese, he sails
back home to Lisbon where quite soon his fortunes
decline after an absence without leave.

Through a rising in Morocco
and his idle years in Lisbon
Ferdinand Magellan figures
there must be a western route
to the Spice Islands which does not require
the lengthy trip round South America.

From another expedition
he has secret information
of a strait in Patagonia,
leading through America;
that way, he claims, he'd reach the islands faster
than circumnavigating Africa.

But his monarch shows no interest,
so Magellan is approaching
Charles, the king of Spain, and tells him
that his plan could be a chance
for Spanish merchant ships to sail to Asia
whose routes were blocked off by the Portuguese.

Many years of preparations
follow and a lot of struggles;
finally his fleet is leaving
the Sevillian port, led by
the voyager who dreams of being remembered
as the first man to sail around the world.

The Canaries and the western
coast of Africa behind them,
they are crossing the Atlantic,
and they anchor in Brazil;
as this is Portuguese terrain, the sailors
are ordered to abstain from violence.

Further south they can return to
the tradition of explorers:
raping, plund'ring, Christianising
and abducting samples for
the Spanish monarch's human zoo (which rarely
survive the trip, but still it's worth a try).

Then they come to Patagonia
and the strait Magellan heard of,
but it soon turns out to be the
mighty mouth of the River Plate,
so he turns south, following bays and rivers
to find a passage through America.

Being stuck for one cold winter,
running short of food and water,
quenching mutinies, the captain
finally has found the strait -
a stygian labyrinth, but the Pacific
with its exotic treasures lies ahead!

Hundred days they sail the ocean;
hundred days of thirst, starvation,
scurvy, scorching heat and dying
men before they come to Guam,
burn down a village, rob fresh food and water,
and soon another island is in sight.

Natives in their boats surround them,
and Magellan thinks they've come to
the Spice Islands, but Enrique
speaks the language of these men:
they have arrived at the Visayan Islands
where both their voyages would come to end.

Here the crew receive a welcome
from the king who is maintaining
they are free to trade as soon as
they have paid the tribute; though
Enrique warns him of the consequences,
the stubborn king insists on being paid.

Then a foreign trader tells him
of the power of the Christians,
of the countries they invaded
and the terror that they spread,
and now the king gives in; the other islands
are soon annexed and Christianised as well.

But the Mactans are objecting
to becoming slaves and Christians,
so Magellan burns their village,
plunders it and hoists the cross;
Enrique watches as they kill his master,
knowing Magellan's death will set him free.

Reunited with his people,
he escapes the ghastly nightmare
of Christianity and exits
from the face of history,
the slave whose name will never be remembered
and the first man to sail around the world.

Amidst the Aztecs' golden works of art
the Spanish monarch entertained his guests,
and when the lot of them demanded jests,
his jester rose and ventured to impart,

'If the Chinese had brought their much-revered
gunpowder to America instead
of Europe, all those Aztecs would have had
a field day when the Spanish fleet appeared.

'They would have killed most strangers once alert,
taken the others hostage and then went
on to discover Europe with intent
to plunder, pillage, slaughter and convert.

'They would have grabbed your land by force or stealth,
installed a tyrant we now would exalt,
held you as prisoner in your own vault
and carried off your treasures and your wealth.'

Although the king was unamused at first,
he raised his glass, tried hard to show no trace
of ire and cast a smile upon his face
while in his hand the brimful goblet burst.

The sun set as the seals were playing, the evening sky embraced the briny,
and on the waters, gently swaying, lay the dim phantom of a wreck.
The sails hung loose, the mast was creaking, the rotting planks smelt foul and piney,
the seagulls cried, the rats were squeaking, but there was not a man on deck.
The empty crow's nest kept on whining, no pilot watched out for the coast;
the crew had gathered in the dining room: everybody was a ghost.

They raised their horns; the drink had mellowed the sailors as they sang their shanty,
but suddenly the captain bellowed, 'Another hundred years are o'er;
another hundred years of squand'ring our time which we have had in plenty.
I have to save our souls from wand'ring: I must ashore, I must ashore!
Set sail for Holland in the morning, make Odin's heavens blue and wide,
and when the afterday is dawning I'll find myself a faithful bride!'

The others laughed. 'You must be joking: you'd rather find a four-leaf clover!'
The captain sneered at their provoking comments and bawled, 'Set sail tonight!'-
'You browbeat us and asked to stop you if you should try your luck all over
again; girls cross their hearts and drop you as soon as you are out of sight.
Their minds are fickle, and they nestle on any shoulder that is near:
they have a sailor on each vessel and pledge their love at every pier!'

'I know what I have told you;' laden with hope he said, 'I have been erring,
for somewhere there must be a maiden, a woman of the faithful breed!
Have you observed the seagull sailing and darting down to catch the herring?
Ninety-nine times you see her failing, but finally she will succeed!
We've nothing left to lose; the morrow may see us languish like before,
and it might end our doom and sorrow: I must ashore, I must ashore!' –

'There may be faster ways to harden the metals in the smith's profession,
there may be new beliefs that pardon the evildoers who have sinned,
there may be vessels that are flying, there may be wealth or a recession,
new drugs preventing you from dying or ships that sail without the wind,
even a war that rearranges our native country and its name;
there may have been a lot of changes, but woman always stays the same.

'For every conman there's a lesson to learn from any girl's performance:
she hovers round you, faking passion, and makes you think you bought a gem,
she marries you, and she'll desert you and swap your ardour for the doorman's,
for womankind has many a virtue; fidelity is none of them.' -
'That's what I've told you, full of rancour, but don't we all aspire to die?
There's nothing we could lose; weigh anchor! - I have to try, I have to try!'

So they sailed home. The captain faltered when disembarking; though still pretty,
the city's charm had sadly altered - it seemed the buildings grew and grew,
a new religion with new preachers attempted to convert the city,
but, being used to changing features, to Aubrey this was nothing new.
The captain passed the new-built churches and strolled across the rampant grass
to the cathedral at the birches where as a child he went to Mass.

'There is a man,' the priest was chanting, 'whose soul was doomed for generations.
And there's a person,' he kept ranting, 'whose love can save him from his doom!'
The sombre captain felt invited to look around for his salvation's
deliverer until he sighted a gracile nymph in fullest bloom.
She seemed naive and full of passion, her mien showed fervour and surprise -
his gaze was fixed on her expression; in vain she tried to cast down her eyes.

He grabbed his hat when Mass was over and tried to talk to young Elvira.
Her parents said, 'Don't heed that rover, or he may give you some disease!'
They took their daughter by the shoulder and dragged her from her old admirer,
but as they passed, the captain told her, 'I'll wait for you amongst the trees.'
Amongst the birches he debated whether to trust one of her kind;
for three long days and nights he waited until the girl made up her mind.

But when he thought he'd been deserted, she met the captain in his bower.
'I've left my parents,' she asserted and greeted Aubrey with a kiss.
'They locked me in 'cause they disparage all seadogs for their cryptic power
to raise a fate much worse than marriage, and I have wondered what that is!'
He gave the girl the breath that quenches the thirst for Himeros' fair land;
the birches rustled, and their branches touched them as with a long white hand.

Enraptured by the lambent stellar allure she answered his embraces;
under the moon's illustrious pallor he squeezed her rigid mammaettes,
thanks to her passion's manumission they journeyed through all times and spaces
and on Philotes' expedition discovered worlds of no regrets.
As they cooled down she knew that never her feelings could be reconciled;
she pledged to love her man forever, and Captain Aubrey sadly smiled.

They married secretly and rented a little room. 'When you are near me
I feel that Heaven has presented me with all blessings from its hands.
I haven't kept the Ten Commandments because my family won't hear me:
I listened to my heart's enchantments and left my parents and my friends.
But things are changing for the better, and have been since we said "I do",
for what do friends and parents matter as long as I can be with you?'

'I must away!' - Her man entreated his bride to cease her sobs and grouses.
'You're leaving me?' Elvira greeted as Aubrey gently dried her tears.
'But I suppose that I’ll be learning this is the lot of sailors' spouses;
tell me, when will you be returning?' - 'I shall be back in hundred years.
Of all the women I have married you are the one I love the most;
this is the reason I have tarried - now I must go since I'm a ghost.

'Once we were sailing the Atlantic. A calm impeded us for ages;
the restless crew were taut and frantic, and I was getting to the brink
of death. There was no wind for seven long weeks: a trial too rough for sages,
the sun was burning down from heaven, no food was left and naught to drink.
I swore I'd eat the first thing failing to get away, and it occurred
that one just perched upon the railing: I killed the bird, I killed the bird!

'Hard is the punishment,' he ranted, 'impossible is my salvation;
once every hundred years I'm granted leave from the ship to join the mart,
and then again I steer the shoddy accursed barque of my damnation
until the time I meet somebody who's loving me with all her heart.
Unless I find a faithful lover there'll be no pardon nor release:
under the firmament's blue cover I have to sail the seven seas.'

'This sounds too strange to be a fable, my captain, and I do believe you,
and I assure you that I'm able to end your voyage; trust your wife!
I won't go near another suitor or gallant, for I won't deceive you;
to carnal love you've been my tutor - there'll be no other all my life!' -
'I do not doubt your good intentions, but woman changes every day,
and faith was none of her inventions; I must away, I must away!'

Aboard he roared, 'Did I not tell you to keep me from my foolish mission?
I wish that you could go to hell, you poltroons who disobeyed my calls!' -
'There's other orders that you gave us! As Odin knows of our petition,
there's still a chance that she might save us!' - 'Then you just wait till evening falls!'
The anchor from the ground was lifted, the mariners coiled up the rope,
and with a gentle breeze they drifted out of the harbour of their hope.

'I'll save your souls!' - The sailors wavered and turned their faces to discover
the silhouette of Aubrey’s favoured wife on a cliff against the sky.
'There is a way,' Elvira shouted, 'we can be faithful to a lover,
and I, the woman that you doubted, I shall be faithful till I die!'
And as her body touched the billow, the vessel sank with all her men;
they're resting on Poseidon's pillow, and neither ever rose again.

(based on Heinrich Heine's version of a Dutch legend)

The sleepy town of Penance,
a place of law and peace,
was home to a mere dozen
godfearing families.

Ruled by the Ten Commandments,
God’s word and Holy Writ,
the righteous congregation
obeyed each jot of it.

No one had been a farmer
before, but their accord
was that they’d be rewarded
for trusting in the Lord.

Goody arrived in Penance,
still in the prime of life,
as the indentured servant
of Joseph and his wife.

On their extensive farmland
she worked from dawn till night;
she rose to feed the cattle
and horses at first light.

There was no break for Goody
except on Sundays when
she had to go to church and
straight back to work again.

Soon an ungrateful harvest
spelt Penance’ farmers’ doom,
and so the men assembled
in the first selectman's room.

They chose to rob the Indians;
the Reverend Wilson prayed
that God may bless the party
and their intended raid.

And on the eve that followed
the plunderers returned
with plentiful provisions
their faith in God had earned:

‘We’ve food to last the winter,
warm furs and scalps galore;
the savages are lying
and dying in their gore.

‘But some fought back, and Joseph
who showed resolve and pride
was injured by an arrow
that hit him in the side.’

The doctor who examined
him said in sombre tone,
‘His wife and his five children
will soon be on their own.’

But Goody swiftly gathered
some leaves and herbs and dressed
his wound which soon was closing,
leaving the men impressed.

While rumours started spreading,
most of the men were quick
to say she just had knowledge
of plants that heal the sick.

Joseph displayed his grateful
emotions in a way
that made her feel uneasy,
but servants must obey.

Once Widow Huxley called for
the doctor, and she said,
‘Please save my Job; you know that
he’s all I’ve ever had.

‘His death would be my downfall,
a most unbearable cross;
slaves now are so expensive,
I can’t afford his loss.’

Yet when the doctor saw him
in his pathetic state
as he lay on his pallet,
he said, ‘It is too late.’

But Goody mixed a potion
with rosemary and chard,
and after Job recovered
he laboured thrice as hard.

Once more some people doubted
Goody’s allegiance hence;
the Reverend Wilson heard it
and rushed to her defence:

‘She helped the desperate widow;
a power used to aid
cannot derive from Satan;
that’s how the world was made.’

But women made assertions
which Goody knew about,
and on a wintry evening
she secretly sneaked out.

She left before they noticed
she was with child and found
the effigy of Joseph
she’d staked into the ground.

At dusk a Creole pig was sacrificed
like at Bois Caïman some twelve years before
where Dutty Boukman, slave and priest, enticed
his people to revolt from shore to shore.

Captain François Capois on bended knee
prayed to St George, unwaveringly bent
on leading Haitian troops to victory
and hastening Napoleon’s descent.

The drums began, accompanied by chants
of those around him as the ample-loined
two priestesses spread veves; the circle dance
commenced, the drums went faster as he joined.

The priestesses, to host the loa, dived
onto the floor beside François, and when
the moment of possession had arrived
he closed his eyes and opened them again.

He noticed Baron Samedi who sat
in front of him in his black tail coat, lit
a big cigar and smiled, then wondered at
his red-haired Irish wife, Maman Brigitte.

The loa helped themselves to cake and rum
provided on their altar in the room.
François asked for advice; the Baron’s glum
expression and his sombre voice spelt gloom.

He said, ‘I have refused to dig your grave,
but if you fail, that much shall be revealed
for now, you once again will be a slave
who’ll wish he’d died upon the battlefield.’

At break of day Forts Bréda and Vertières,
held by the French, were facing an attack;
François Capois approached the foeman’s lair,
but soon he and his soldiers were pushed back.

‘Forward!’ he called and led the way; his men
renewed their charge, but when a cannonball
took out the horse beneath him, once again
most troops retreated following his fall.

‘Forward!’ he called and led the way as soon
as he got up and didn’t even bat
an eyelid when amidst inopportune
chaos a shot blew off his feathered hat.

‘Forward!’ he called again and led the way;
the French, impressed by his tenacity,
asked for a short-term ceasefire so that they
could compliment him on his bravery.

The battles raged all day, but then, as night
fell on the corpses it was clear they’d bring
freedom; the French had lost their desperate fight
for rule and slavery in Saint-Domingue.

That fateful night was sealed, from shore to shore,
by rain and thunder when the war was won,
exactly like that night twelve years before,
the night the revolution had begun.

Thus Haitians gained their independency
after the stubborn French were overthrown
to be, as many a people who broke free,
oppressed, used and exploited by their own.

The master proudly took his work of art,
the first big step on his new way, a feat
that took two years, and on its cover sheet
gracefully wrote its title: Bonaparte.

He had supported him right from the start,
believing that the world needs no elite,
and therefore dedicated, with each beat,
the symphony to him who’d won his heart.

But then Napoleon, able to outsmart
the Revolution, made his quest complete,
crowned himself emperor and went to greet
critics with his gendarmes’ black prison cart.

Dethroning his old hero, Ludwig threw
a fit and tore the title page in two.

The man who'd changed the course of music
for evermore sped up his pace:
he finally would meet his hero
in this remote Bohemian place.

Beethoven anxiously expected
the poet he admired so,
the Establishment's apologist and
defender of the status quo.

Goethe arrived, and after greeting
each other they commenced to stroll
across the village green, discussing
their works and artists as a whole.

And suddenly they saw the empress,
wearing an edelweiss corsage
on her flamboyant summer jacket,
approaching with her entourage.

Goethe who was a hopeless sucker
for etiquette at once made way
for them and told the young composer,
'Let's step aside and shout Hooray!'

He doffed his hat in deference and
observed the train with solemn mien,
and as it passed, he bowed so deeply
his hairpiece almost touched the green.

Beethoven simply kept on walking,
not altering his course or stride,
and with a scornful sneer he stated,
'It's they who have to step aside.'

'Quittin' time,' a sweet voice calling
through the man-sized plants declared;
as the slaves went to their quarters,
Tucker legged it, unprepared.

But the master saw it, shot him
in the leg, rode up and sneered.
'That will stop you rogue from running
for a little while,' he cheered.

'Even now I could outrace you!' -
Tucker's master laughed with glee,
'If you win a race against me
in that state, I'll set you free.'

'Give me time to get a bandage
and a bite to eat; at gloam
I will meet you at this furrow,'
Tucker said and hobbled home.

'Dad, today the massa shot me
just before I reached the gate:
dress your thigh and shave your beard off,
and tonight we'll celebrate!'

'Have you lost it altogether?' -
'No, but massa's fate is sealed;
he accepts my challenge to a
race through his tobacco field.

'If I win that race against him,
massa said he'll set me free;
you'll be waiting on the other
side, pretending to be me.'

'That's ridiculous! I'm certain
that he'll see right through your game.' -
'Father, to them fancy white folk
all us niggers look the same.'

'On the count of three,' the master
at his furrow grinned; on three
both were dashing off, but Tucker
soon turned back quite leisurely.

'Wonder if he'll ever get here,'
Tucker’s owner thought with cheer
as he reached the end where loudly
he was greeted, 'I'm right here!'

Frozen to the spot, the baffled
master unbelievingly
dropped his jaw and tied his laces
as he gasped, 'Best out of three!'

'I was sergeant in the army,'
he was mumbling. 'Now I'll be
beaten by a wounded negro;
everyone will laugh at me!'

He was running like the devil;
when the finish line was near,
he saw Tucker smoke his corn pipe
as he shouted, 'I'm right here!'

'Tucker, you're not even sweating
while I barely am alive.'
Once he caught his breath, the master
told his slave, 'Best out of five!'

Soon he faltered and he panted,
everything before his eyes
flickered, and his fatal heat stroke
hardly came as a surprise.

At their quarters son and father
told the others of their day,
'If we want to leave by midnight,
best start packing right away.'

(based on the fable De Haas un de Swinegel ['The Hare and the Hedgehog'])

I first noticed the Assassins when I wasn't even three
and we children all were gathered at our mother's bed as she,
never suffering senescence, closed her eyes for evermore
and her spirit hence was tethered to the Night's Plutonian shore.
Clothed in black, with sombre faces, they awaited her demise,
disappearing in the darkness once they had secured their prize;
since your humble servant chases happiness with bated breath,
left forever in the starkness of a life entombed in death.

Feeling grown in adolescence, I became courageous and
eagerly and fiercely courted Jane, the mother of a friend,
but the hideous Assassins soon appeared again and claimed
her who has inspired, supported and reviewed my not yet famed
poems written to entreat her into feeling what I felt.
In the evenings, armed with flowers, oft afront her plot I knelt,
wishing I once more could meet her, feel the comfort that she gave,
and I cannot count the hours I spent weeping at her grave.

As a sergeant major, serving far away, I once received
news that my dear foster mother, like the one for whom I'd grieved
long before her, whose unswerving love protected me, was ill
with consumption. Like no other she had known me; in the still
of that eve I saw her lying in the dim caliginous light;
the malign Assassins' shady shadows led her into night.
Knowing that she'd soon be dying, sharing my true mother's fate,
I took leave to see the lady once again but came too late.

Then the tide, it seemed, was turning: happiness approached my life
on the day that I got married to Virginia, and my wife
lit a torch that kept on burning in the dungeons of my mind
as the joyfulness she carried took me over with its blind
blissfulness that knows no error, never asking when or why.
Once she sang for me and others in our sitting room when I
heard her cough and then, in terror, saw a blood drop on her lip:
the disease that'd killed my mothers held Virginia in its grip!

And behind the grand piano the Assassins stood and smirked
who had left their place of hiding where so many years they'd lurked.
They extinguished her soprano, watched her suffer and decay;
when it looked like she was gliding into nothingness one day,
suddenly they disappeared and soon my wife seemed on the road
to recovery and cheating death from what he thought she owed.
Gradually her symptoms cleared and she felt better, but I learned
soon enough all hope is fleeting: the Assassins had returned.

Many years they kept on playing their perverse sadistic game,
hide and seek with one who'd gladly give his life, his soul, his fame
to preserve the one decaying in his very arms who then
shows improvement just to sadly fall into decline again.
Some malicious tongues were speeding up the process with their art,
hope and sheer despair were ripping heart and mind of mine apart,
and her illness kept proceeding, and her pupils lost their spark,
till the one I loved was slipping into everlasting dark.

Two years later as I travelled to the Richmond of my youth,
I looked up my childhood darling; finally the ugly truth
of our split was being unravelled - though we'd been engaged, her stout
father who was always snarling at me had, as she found out,
intercepted all our letters, told her to forget me which
she found futile, called her wild and married her to someone rich.
Widowed like myself, no fetters bound Elmira - eagerly
I proposed to her; she smiled and after weeks said Yes to me.

We decided I'd collect my aunt and my entire estate
from New York, and by November we would set a wedding date.
But I started to suspect my fortune, knowing life forsook
me too often, and remember all the darkness as I took
leave of her and heavy-heartedly prepared to say goodbye,
pondering why fate dictated that the ones I love must die.
Was she spared because we parted timely? Must my love be feared?
- Then, as if they long had waited, the Assassins reappeared.

‘Edgar, darling, you have fainted!’ I could hear Elmira yell.
‘You should stay right here,’ she pleaded, ‘for a while until you're well.’
But I could not get acquainted with the thought of more delay;
furthermore, some business needed looking after on the way.
I believed that I could handle such a trip, against her will,
and I told her I'd be taking the next boat; my fever still
held no candle to the gnawing inner illness that I bore,
and although my limbs were shaking, I set off to Baltimore.

There I took the train to flatter an aspiring poetess
up in Philadelphia, finding that she wasn't home; I guess
that she didn't get my letter to discuss her work. I went
to see friends who kept reminding me that I should not torment
my sick body and who nursed me for some days until I packed
my belongings; I felt bad to turn them down despite being wrecked.
Even though the fever cursed me and my life force lost its torque,
I informed them that I had to travel onwards to New York.

Walking to the railway station, I reflected on my case:
Must I watch my sweetheart perish till she rests in night's embrace?
Witness her annihilation? Could I free her if I died?
I might save the one I cherish, I concluded, if I tried.
And I reached into my pocket where I had been keeping some
laudanum for my depression, for the times I'm feeling glum,
next to dear Elmira's locket, my fresh source of joy and woe,
whom I love with all the passion of some twenty years ago.

Maryland would hold elections on the third, and so I changed
plans, rode back to Baltimore and thought my end could be arranged
in a way that my connections think that I'd been drugged and cooped.
On the train a transient wore and fondled tattered rags and whooped,
‘Mister, can you spare a quarter?’ - I just smiled at him and rose,
‘I don't have a cent,’ I told him, ‘but you're welcome to my clothes.’
Shielded by a friendly porter we swapped clothes, which was my plan;
may a better outfit mould him to become a luckier man.

After I've been sleeping rough to stay unknown, all I desired
was my death; I once had tried this when my darling wife expired.
This time I shall take enough to make well sure my end is quick,
and the bottle that's inside this coat should neatly do the trick.
Laudanum, my sweet nepenthe, set my troubled spirit free,
let me leave this vale of dolour in a shroud of mystery.
Heavens, heavens, kindly send the angels down to her to bless
dear Elmira, Hebe's scholar: may she age in happiness.

Now my selfishness of living ends beside a polling place,
and I soon shall see the meadows of the underworld, embrace
deities who are forgiving and, far from this planet's dearth,
meet my loved ones in the shadows who have haunted me on Earth.

Her dark bright eyes looked at the master;
his question was a little odd,
but with a gentle smile she answered,
‘Of course I love you, Master Todd!’

She added, ‘Just a few more minutes,’
and put him on his rocking horse,
‘the Wilcoxes will be arriving
soon and you’ll have to dress, of course.

‘Then you can gambol with Miss Annie
while all the grown-ups have their tea.’
She noticed Master Todd was brooding
and said, ‘You’re deep in thought, I see?’

‘Why are you here and don’t pick cotton
like all the rest?’ - ‘Your father knew
that when your mother died, he needed
a person to look after you.’

‘You’re not a person, Aunt Abmaba,’
Todd laughed so hard he almost cried.
‘What makes you think I’m not a person?’ -
‘My father says so,’ he replied.

She asked the boy, ‘What is a person?’
aware that Master Todd would know.
He said, ‘A living human being,’
to which his mammy answered, ‘So?’

That moment was a revelation,
engraved in his receptive mind;
he started to abhor his father
and everybody of his kind.

As a young man he went to study
in Richmond; when his father died
he hurried home since his intentions
could now no longer be denied.

He sold the sorrowful plantation,
knowing he’d never be in want,
he freed his mammy and the other
slaves and then settled in Vermont.

When Annie Wilcox and her husband
were visiting her family,
she asked about her childhood playmate
she secretly had hoped to see.

‘Whatever happened to Todd Stevens?
He hasn’t died, I hope?’ - ‘It’s worse;
he has been conquered by dark forces,
a victim of the Mammy’s Curse.’

The watchful guardian awoke Thutmosis,
‘The queen was taken from her sacred tomb;
if she is not returned before the Khoiak,
she'll be condemned to everlasting doom!’

The pharaoh started up, breathed deeply, rose from
his sealed sarcophagus, and he exclaimed,
‘Not Neferura, dearest wife and sister!
No peace shall be on him who's to be blamed!

‘My chariot at once,’ Thutmosis ordered.
‘Make haste, make haste, don't leave me in the lurch!’ -
‘Where will you search for her?’ - ‘Her ba is shining
bright as a star, I do not have to search!’

When Owen Phibbs at last returned from Egypt
home to Lisheenacooravan, he brought
a treasure of old daggers, swords and mummies,
attracting more attention than he'd thought.

He laid them out upstairs beneath the skylight
and called it his museum. ‘You're a grave
robber,’ his father said. ‘Have you not heard of
the punishment?’ - ‘I’m back now, so I'm safe.’

The pharaoh's chariot raced through the night sky
en route to Sligo and approached the bay,
reached Seafield House and burst into the chamber
where his belovèd Neferura lay.

As the foundations trembled and the china
broke into bits, the Phibbses, all in fear
of burglars or an earthquake, went to follow
the unholy noise, ‘What's going on in here?’

Thutmosis faced the family in anger,
‘You robbed my consort from her resting place
and of her afterlife; unless I take her
back home, I ne'er again shall see her face!’

That very moment, through the open skylight
an owl flew in; it rested on the queen
and pecked her heart out. ‘Dammit, Ammit!’ shouted
the king but couldn't stop it fleeing the scene.

‘What in God's name was that?’ - ‘That owl was Ammit,
a demon. Now,’ the pharaoh caught his breath,
‘without her heart, my consort can no longer
travel with Ra; she died the second death.’

‘I am so sorry,’ Owen told Thutmosis,
‘I wish that there was something we could do.’
His mother blessed herself; the fuming pharaoh
yelled from his lungs, ‘She died because of you!

‘I won't find peace without her, yet I have to
travel with Ra until the end of days,
but I'll send back my chariot each midnight
which shall remind you of your sinful ways!’

And back it came, night after night. The clamour
soon drove away the gardener, their prized
domestic servants, and the Phibbses followed,
unable to expel the poltergeist.

Time watches. Seafield House is long abandoned,
and birds nest in the trees that grow inside,
the winds blow harshly through its stately ruins,
and all one hears at daytime is the tide.

But after dark a grim unearthly clatter
shakes its foundations every night anew
as, drawn by passionate Arabian horses,
the pharaoh's chariot is passing through.

Charity Butler claimed her freedom
and that of her two children since
she'd spent six months in Pennsylvania
which, she attempted to convince
a sceptic jury, did entitle
them to demand their freedom and
refuse the order of their owner
that they return to Maryland.

Thaddeus Stevens, representing
her owner, in a factual tone
explained, ‘She's been on some short visits
with Mrs Gilleland, unbeknown
to Mr Bruce, not on his orders
as is required; it's also fact
the stay must be uninterrupted
to satisfy the cited act.’

He won the case. The devastated
young mother then was dragged away;
Thaddeus Stevens kept on hearing
her muffled screams throughout the day.
They never left him; he decided
his mission was the futile fight
against an evil institution:
‘This is a wrong we have to right!’

Henceforth he never represented
slaveholders but their slaves instead,
and anyone who couldn't pay him
was still looked after. Once he had
to stop at a provincial guest house
in Maryland whose smug and sly
owner he knew; he signed the guest book
and heard one of his slave girls cry.

‘What is it?’ Stevens asked the woman.
‘He'll sell my husband,’ she replied.
He turned around and faced the landlord,
‘You sell your flesh and blood?’ he tried
to keep his temper as he shouted.
‘I need the money urgently,’
so Stevens reached inside his pocket,
purchased the slave and set him free.

As Pennsylvania legislator
he saved the public schooling act
from being repealed by demonstrating
the rich saved money as an effect,
the boons of educated voters,
the fate of children left behind:
‘Build not your monuments of marble
but of an everlasting mind!’

He set up house with a biracial
lady in Lancaster who brought
her sons along, and they provided
a safe house for the slaves who sought
shelter as they escaped to freedom
via the secret Underground
Railroad where they were fed and cared for,
ensuring they would not be found.

The Compromise of 1850
saw many a concession for
the slave states, and a disappointed
Congressman Stevens took the floor,
‘I'm rational, and though I welcome
a compromise when it unites
opposing parties, I abhor it
when it's applied to human rights.

‘Since you believe this institution
is but a blessing for the slave
who is looked after, fed and happy,
how would it matter if you gave
the man a choice about his future?
Then let the slaves who choose go free
and freemen who so choose be chattel,
and either will be fine with me.’

Should Women, Too, Hold Civil Office?
This touchy subject was explored
at length in Fulton Hall, and Stevens
the radical went overboard
once more and claimed, ‘I've no objections,
for women are, if I may note,
not only fit for public office
but also fit to have a vote!’

A congressman from California
proposed a tariff on cleaned rice,
and Stevens pointed out the measure
intended to increase its price:
‘Your state has been discriminating
against Chinese Americans
for long enough!’ - The vote that followed
put a quick end to Sargent's plans.

When Abraham Lincoln was elected,
the Southerners who, at a glance,
feared rising taxes, higher tariffs
on produce and his party's stance
against the further spread of thralldom
despite the clear and solemn pledge
of Lincoln not to interfere with
their institution, felt on edge.

And so the Southern states seceded,
as was their constitutional right;
Lincoln invoked the Perpetual Union
for which he was prepared to fight.
When shots were fired against Fort Sumter
he went to war for unity;
his zealous party colleague Stevens
supported Lincoln eagerly.

Stevens proposed a resolution
to free all slaves who choose to leave
their masters or support the Union
which failed, but still it did achieve
attention, and he begged of Lincoln
to set the slaves of the nation free:
‘Don't let this be about the union,
make this a war for liberty!’

‘Now's not the time for such an action,’
Lincoln replied as oft before.
‘You can't take on an institution
like this and think you'll win the war.
You radicals are too impatient,
and with your ardour you just may
endanger our direct reunion;
tomorrow is another day.’ -

‘You call me radical for stating
all Homo sapiens are the same;
regardless of our rank and station,
our race, our gender and our name,
we all belong to one fine species.
If, as our fathers did decree,
all humans are created equal,
they must be treated equally!

‘They laugh at us all over Europe,
even before this war began,
where slavery has been abolished
for decades as a blight on man.
I once believed I had to follow
the most revolting of our laws;
since then I've fought against this evil,
not waiting for the crowd's applause.’ -

‘I wouldn't call a slave my equal,’
Lincoln replied, ‘but nonetheless,
in time we shall address this matter;
soon after victory, I guess.
Besides, we have to find a country
for them, a land with open gates,
since we can't have a flood of freedmen
let loose on the United States.’ -

‘Sir, your society deported
thousands of former slaves so far
and colonised them in the regions
of Haiti and Liberia;
soon, hopefully, there'll be four million
freed slaves who, I insist, should stay;
you could not justify nor finance
your plan to send them all away.’

One year had passed since Stevens' motion
when Lincoln's proclamation freed
the slaves outside his jurisdiction
(not in the border states) to speed
the process up as it encouraged
Confederation slaves to flee
and join the troubled Union Army,
knowing henceforth they would be free.

General Early rode to Stevens'
mills where he planned to hang him, cut
his bones and send them out in parcels
to the Confederation, but
he wasn't home, and so the soldiers
burnt down his ironworks instead.
‘If we accomplish abolition,
it is a bargain price,’ he said.

Thaddeus Stevens kept on pushing
for an amendment, and the House
eventually voted for the second
time on the matter. ‘Don't arouse
allied conservatives by claiming
more than it offers,’ he was urged.
‘Don't talk of blacks as equals, voters
or congressmen lest we be purged!’

His heart was clenched as he moderated
his speech to everyone's surprise,
and semi-willingly he tasted
the nausea of compromise.
The Thirteenth passed. On ratification
the nation's slaves would all be free -
the House broke into celebration
with freemen on the gallery.

When Lincoln was assassinated
amidst the nation's discontent,
the negrophobic Andrew Johnson
became the country's president
who vetoed every motion granting
rights to black men and others while
Thaddeus Stevens kept on fighting
for them in his distinctive style.

Uneasily he voted for the
Fourteenth which he had drafted, though
it had been watered down and only
addressed citizenship. ‘I know,
I live with men and not with angels;
let's take the offered slice but still
demand the cake.’ Once more he'd suffered
a compromise with his firm will.

A bill to put the Indians under
state laws for being hostile had
been tabled. ‘Do you mean the carnage
of white Chief Chivington?’ he said,
referring to the recent slaughter
of Indians by the army who
had massacred and scalped a peaceful
village. The bill did not go through.

Because he sabotaged all progress,
President Johnson was impeached;
Stevens, in failing health, was carried
into the Senate he beseeched,
‘This offspring of assassination
turned on the Senate - make him pay!’
The president was not convicted,
and Stevens soon got carried away.

Before he died he learnt the graveyard
his plot was in accepted whites
only and chose an interracial
burial place instead. ‘My fights
for human dignity are over
at last, and their rewards are small;
I shall be buried with my brothers
and sisters, black and white and all!’

Captain Briggs was about to retire from the sea
and to open a shop; one last voyage, he guessed,
would suffice to provide for his loved ones, so he
bought a share and took charge of the Mary Celeste.

A valuable cargo of alcohol, bound
for Genoa waited for her and, impressed
with her refit, Briggs, wanting his loved ones around,
took his daughter and wife on the Mary Celeste.

She set sail from New York once the weather had cleared,
but after the fortunate crew had been blessed
with calm waters, the tropical storms Briggs had feared
took their toll on the shape of the Mary Celeste.

Once the tempest subsided, he ordered his crew
to check how much water she’d gained and to test
if the pumps were in working condition and, too,
to examine the freight of the Mary Celeste.

As Sophia, his two-year-old daughter, was fed,
his first mate arrived back from the hold to suggest,
‘You better come smell for yourself!’ So they sped
with all haste to the hold of the Mary Celeste.

‘She’ll explode!’ Briggs exclaimed as the fumes hit his face
from the vaporised alcohol. ‘Quick,’ he addressed
all aboard. ‘We must hurry; we’re running a race
‘gainst the ticking time bomb called Mary Celeste.’

Captain Briggs who kept rushing his crew and his kin
grabbed his sextant, chronometer, Bible and vest,
and Sophia the family album she’d been
growing fond of aboard the Mary Celeste.

‘We're near Santa Maria, and there we can find
help and shelter,’ he claimed as their lifeboat progressed
towards their watery grave while leaving behind
the perfectly seaworthy Mary Celeste.

One may wonder about one’s own goals unachieved,
just how often it happened that we, while distressed
or discouraged by hurdles or threats we perceived,
prematurely abandoned our Mary Celeste.

‘What am I doing in this place?’ the ageing
chief wondered loudly and laid down his pen.
‘I should be with my tribe instead of staging
my own defeat to entertain white men.

‘I fought when white invaders violated
the treaty after they discovered gold
upon our land rather than watch the hated
intruders massacre our young and old.

‘Their rifles couldn't quell our angry voices,
we didn't budge when we were being mobbed.
They told us, “Sell or starve – these are your choices”,
and when we chose to starve our land was robbed.

‘And yet we held out longer than all others
in Canada before we were undone,
and I shall be remembered by my brothers
as the last Sioux forced to lay down his gun.

‘And now I'm but the pale invaders' flunkey,
riding around the theatre each night,
performing like a broken circus monkey
for the oppressors that I used to fight.

‘These days I'm merely travelling, rehearsing
and putting on a show for old and young,
my only pleasure being that of cursing
the audiences in my native tongue.

‘I was the last to stand against the traitors
who foully breached our treaty, that's for sure,
and here I'm sitting, charging some spectators
for signing autographs to feed the poor.

‘I shall rejoin the people of my nation,
I shall return to where my tribe was thrown:
the barren wastelands of our reservation
to suffer, starve and die amongst my own.’

‘We need protection and we need it now. Indians are dancing in the snow.’
- Daniel F Royer, Indian Agent

Stand in the circle and hold hands and shout,
dance, sing and pray until you all pass out!

My brothers, I bring news from your departed
fathers the ghosts who march to join your fight
together with the kind and tender-hearted
Messiah who has listened to your plight.

The white man will become the world's pariah,
and you will see your prophecies fulfilled
with the assured return of the Messiah
who first appeared to them and whom they killed.

And this time he will not be disappearing
into the clouds the way he did before
but stay with you, his chosen people, clearing
your land of the invaders, shore to shore.

Stand in the circle and hold hands and shout,
dance, sing and pray until you all pass out!

He led me up to Heaven on a ladder
of clouds; there Wakan Tanka and his wife
showed me the lavish camping grounds of gladder
red men and told me, ‘This will be your life.

‘Come spring, your land will once again be teeming
with grass and trees and buffalo galore,
and once again clear rivers will be streaming
across the prairie as in moons of yore.

‘The new world I'll create will be a better
one than the one before the white man came
whom I'll drive out so he may never fetter
your happiness again but dwell in shame.’

Stand in the circle and hold hands and shout,
dance, sing and pray until you all pass out!

‘Your noble brothers' teepees will be spreading
across a smiling land between the coasts,
and in this world there will be no more shedding
of blood and no more military posts.

‘And in that life which I shall be attending
you will be reunited with your kin
who have passed on to live in never-ending
rapture and peace with no more crime or sin.

‘But don't attempt to fight the vile aggressor
yourselves, although your souls be clenched and grim;
don't raise your hand against your pale oppressor:
it's the Messiah who will deal with him.’

Stand in the circle and hold hands and shout,
dance, sing and pray until you all pass out!

He gave me ghost shirts which will be protecting
the dancers from the bullets of the foe,
and if you dance, he soon will be erecting
his kingdom where there'll be no pain nor woe.

Then the Messiah brought me back from Heaven;
before I left the mighty Lord of Hosts
taught me the dance which must be danced in seven
directions to invoke your fathers' ghosts.

Dance East and South and West and North with passion,
dance skywards and towards Earth without complaint,
dance inwards in the holy prophets' fashion,
dance, sing and pray for peace until you faint!

Stand in the circle and hold hands and shout,
dance, sing and pray until you all pass out!

Another movement teaching that the answers
to life are found in spirituality,
the Ghost Dance died with hundreds of its dancers
one frosty winter's morn at Wounded Knee.

How to build the longest railway in the world without the funds
is a story that needs telling, and I'll only tell it once.
From the port of Vladivostok to the Muscovite arcades
one cheap set of tracks was thought to be sufficient, and brigades
of surveyors were sent out to chart Siberia far and wide;
using their imagination, no one set a foot outside,
and their laziness and caution that excused them from the freeze
led to many complications, setbacks and fatalities.

As the natives were unwilling, convicts had to do the work,
labourers from China, Persia, Italy and many a Turk:
armed with picks and wooden shovels we attacked the frozen ground
to prepare it for the railway with the elements around.
In the evenings we'd be eating unidentifiable soup,
oft with added meat from prostrate horses to delight the group,
and then go to sleep in shabby tents or shacks prepared on site
with the convicts being shackled to wheelbarrows for the night.

Never knowing what's around the corner in this hostile land,
we were in for some surprises: rivers, mountains, forests and
bogs where tundra was expected so we had to watch our steps,
and quite often we were falling for the vast Siberian Traps.
Building bridges over rivers was the most ungrateful task
and most dangerous because there was no man who dared to ask
for a safety rope, so many of the workers lost their grip
or their foothold in the arctic cold and took their final slip.

We dug tunnels through the granite rock formations with just picks,
hatchets, hand drills and whatever we could find out in the sticks.
Modern countries have pneumatic drills and lots of dynamite;
we, as we removed the debris, pulled wheelbarrows through the tight
tunnels just like beasts of burden, struggling hard for strength and breath,
and it's hardly a surprise that many a worker met his death.
Here, as anywhere along the railway, tragedies were rife,
and Tunguska was the only site that never claimed a life.

In the taiga there's a forest darker than the world of yore
with its trees so tall and dense that sunlight never touched its floor.
When we felled the trees, the warming sunbeams reached the ice below;
thus the place became a stream which carried with its forceful flow
both our men and our equipment downwood to an unknown fate
like a punishment for humans who have dared to desecrate
Nature's jealously protected last arboreous sanctuary,
ruling that it would be taking one of us for every tree.

Places mapped as steppe quite often turned out to be swamp or wood
where we'd fight mosquitoes, and the thickest lay'r of clothing could
not protect us from the nasty sting of the Siberian gnat;
thus infections spread like wildfire which reduced our numbers at
an alarming rate and added to the casualties of those
who had lost their lives in grisly accidents and those who froze
to their deaths throughout the winters, and I swear upon my soul
there has been no undertaking of mankind with such a toll.

Hundred thousand built the railway, thousands died along the way
as we spread six thousand miles of brittle steel so others may
travel on the rails that angry natives call the Iron Scar;
as you ride the Trans-Siberian train, the brainchild of the tsar,
you may well enjoy the comforts that the operator boasts,
but while touring through the sleeping land you may espy our ghosts,
scattered through the vast Siberian landscape where we risked our necks,
where we laboured, where we suffered, where we died and left our tracks.

Casey Jones the engineer
used to do things his own way,
like the whistle that he had
made himself from tubes one day.
When his piercing whistle wailed
far across the peaceful glen,
folk were turning in their beds,
‘There goes Casey Jones again.’
Always punctual, Casey deemed
being late a social crime
and was proud that all his runs
reached their final stop on time.
Station masters, engineers,
operators on their phones
and his passengers alike
set their watch by Casey Jones.

Once his fellow engineer
drove the train as Jones climbed out
to adjust the spark screen and
saw some children playing about
on the tracks. They scattered soon,
but one girl froze to the spot;
seeing that she wouldn't move,
Casey, who was getting hot,
rushed up to the pilot where,
to protect the child from harm,
he awaited impact and
caught the youngster in his arm.
Never one to count his feats,
not afraid of sticks and stones,
keen to do his job and help
others: that was Casey Jones.

When an engineer got sick,
Casey volunteered to drive
his night train from Memphis to
Canton which was ninety-five
minutes late, ‘We're screwed, just try
catching up a little, son!’ -
‘I'll convey the mail on time.’ -
‘That would be a record run!’
With Sim Webb, his fireman, Jones
set out through the rain and fog,
dashing down the sodden tracks,
‘Sim, put on another log!’
He remembered, as he harked
to the engine's busy moans,
his two colleagues who had died
here, good friends of Casey Jones.

More than half of the delay
was made up, to Jones' content,
in Grenada, and he sped
to Winona and Durant.
Just five minutes late, they left
Goodman as his men complained,
‘Someone's showing off again!’ -
‘I have pledged we'll,’ Jones maintained,
‘make it on the advertised.’
He was reasonably thrilled;
Sim clung to the nearest bar,
‘Lest you get somebody killed!’ -
‘We're in Vaughan, and only two
minutes late, now stop your groans:
we're as good as back on time!’
celebrated Casey Jones.

‘Something's on the tracks!’ Sim screamed.
‘What the devil can we do?’
Jones replied, ‘We’ll crash! Jump out!’
Sim jumped out, ‘And how 'bout you?’
While afraid he'd cause his own
wife and children grief and pain,
Casey's thoughts went out to all
wives and children on the train.
As his howling whistle warned
everybody in the night,
he reversed the throttle and
slammed the brakes with all his might!
He held on until his own
train, emitting many sones,
smashed the other train's caboose
with a curse from Casey Jones.

Since the speed had been reduced
by some forty miles, between
all the cars that were derailed,
helpers coming to the scene
found amongst the many sprains,
bruises, cuts and broken bones
only one fatality:
that of driver Casey Jones.

When Leopold of Belgium took the Congo,
his troops enslaved its people who were forced
to harvest rubber for the king and slaughtered
those deemed unuseful which the king endorsed.

The men who didn't meet the daily quota
had their or their small children's hands chopped off,
or they were killed, and anyone opposing
these practices was facing scorn and scoff.

During the rubber monarch's reign of terror
the soldiers who'd enabled him to thrive
had killed three quarters of the population
and traumatised the few they'd left alive.

The world was outraged as the news unfolded:
'How could such horrors be committed when
we should have noticed what took place and acted?
Something like this must never happen again!'

Years passed. Meanwhile the proud Herero living
in German South West Africa opposed
their colonisation, but they lost the Battle
of Waterberg, and soon the case was closed.

With the expressed intent of their extinction
the Germans killed survivors that they found
regardless of their age and gender, leaving
their victims' rotting bodies on the ground.

Some people were alarmed, but others told them,
'You can't compare the actions of these men
to the appalling horrors of the Congo;
something like that can never happen again!'

What remained of the Herero had been driven
into the desert where each water hole
was occupied by German troops, attempting
to meet their leader's clearly stated goal.

More than three quarters of their people perished
in their own country, in the desert and
in concentration camps; again a puzzled
world struggled hard and long to understand.

'On the long record of civilisation
this will remain an everlasting blotch;
how could it be that history repeated
itself while all the world was on the watch?

'We will from now, in order to alertly
prevent more crimes against our fellowmen,
firmer than ever stand by our commitment:
Something like this must never happen again!'

The busy World Fair in St Louis
drew, raising some men’s worth,
many a guest from the remotest
four corners of the Earth.

There were the Tlingit from Alaska,
Apache, Wichita,
Arapaho, Cheyenne and Hopi,
Pawnee and Chippewa.

From the new colony Negritos
and Igorot arrived
and Ainu from Japan, ensuring
that soon the business thrived.

From South America Patagonians
came in and quite a few
more specimens to be displayed at
the World Fair’s human zoo.

Here scientists informed the public
that these, due to their shape,
colour and culture were the missing
link between man and ape.

The fair was instantly successful,
but William John McGee,
head of the NGS, was waiting,
and waiting anxiously.

He had expected African Pygmies
with whom his zoo should swarm
because they were, in his opinion,
the lowest human form.

It was months later Samuel Verner,
adventurer and priest,
delivered pygmies as he’d promised;
yet still in time, at least.

One in particular attracted
the crowds, a playful youth
whom he had purchased in the Congo
with pointed wit and tooth.

With the display of Ota Benga
the fair was now complete,
and his clipped teeth invited rumours
he lived on human meat.

And when the fair at last was over,
his furtive owner who
ran from his creditors donated
the boy to New York Zoo.

Located in the House of Primates,
Ota joined chimpanzees
and an orangutan with whom he
lived behind bars and trees.

The New York Times encouraged readers
to study him, and so
the zoo’s visitor numbers doubled
which saw some fortunes grow.

After a while he was permitted
to roam the grounds at day
where he was followed by the jeering
visitors all the way.

One day as Ota was assaulted
by them he turned the page,
employing self-defence to quickly
be brought back to his cage.

His keepers, due to the attention
he got, came to surmise
they couldn’t punish him nor cancel
his outdoor exercise.

But every evening it got harder
to catch him; he would fight
against being returned - he’d struggle
and sometimes even bite.

Meanwhile black members of the clergy
opposed the cruel display
of one of theirs, but most white people
just sneered or looked away.

And yet, according to the director
the pygmy had become
unmanageable and had proven
to be too troublesome.

After some pondering he therefore
eventually agreed
to let him go, so Ota Benga
was clandestinely freed.

He was supported by the caring
coloured community
and studied till he found his English
had improved sufficiently.

He ended up in Lynchburg, working
and saving every dime
to pay the fare back to the Congo
within a few years’ time.

He took the neighbours’ children hunting
and taught them many a song,
and in the night he’d build a fire
and sing and dance along.

And when he could afford his ticket,
he found out, quite displeased,
due to the World War passenger travel
to Africa had ceased.

That night he broke, with all his hopes and
his future torn apart,
into a shed to nick a shotgun
and put it to his heart.

'One equal temper of heroic hearts,
made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
to strive, to seek, to find and not to yield.'
-ALFRED TENNYSON

We're almost there! Just one more day to go
and we will be where no man was before,
just one more day across the endless snow,
the last uncharted region to explore!
We were withstanding Nature's wild resistance,
survived the terrors of the mind and soul.
It must be near that black spot in the distance! -
So cold, so cold is the Pole.

We pack our sledges and we travel forth,
five dauntless heroes on their way to fame,
and everything around is in the North.
We'll soon be there to stake the coldest claim,
the first to reach the world's most southern snow bank;
but who has left their sledge bearer, complete
with foreign flag, behind upon that snow bank? -
So cold, so cold is defeat.

We should be celebrating in the field
of ice and snow, for we fulfilled our vow
to strive, to seek, to find and not to yield:
we were the second! Second, but somehow
don't feel like runners-up; the five explorers
now turn their backs on this perfidious day,
eight hundred miles of ice and snow before us. -
So cold, so cold is the way.

Evans looks wild; there's madness on his face,
Oates suffers from exhaustion, strain and frost
while short-legged Bowers scarcely keeps the pace
and snow-blind Wilson hurt his leg. We've lost
the motivation for our quest; we faltered
to our next depot, but the glacier's vice
awaits us, and it seems the weather altered! -
So cold, so cold is its ice.

It starts to snow. We argue where to go;
a labyrinth of crevasses now extends
before our eyes. We've never been that slow
and weak, our feet are frozen and our hands.
We are not sure of the precise location
of our next depot - there, it is in sight!
For now we are prevented from starvation.
So cold, so cold is the night.

Evans has stayed behind and soon is found
a long way back, to our bewilderment,
his eyes wide open, kneeling on the ground;
we bring the sledge and lay him in the tent.
He doesn't wake, and everyone is worried
about our friend. In vain we try to save
his life; beneath eternal snow he's buried. -
So cold, so cold is his grave.

'Why don't you go ahead? I'll find my way.'
We wait for Oates. We wouldn't leave his side,
although we're losing precious time. Today
we'll reach the place where our poor ponies died.
There is the mark - the depot is below it.
We empty it: the ponies' meat is there,
but where's the fuel? There was more, I know it! -
So cold, so cold is the air.

'You'll have to leave me to survive.' - The same
discussion every morning, every night!
A snowstorm stops us; Oates is not to blame,
but he is pacing up and down inside
the tent, as restless as a spotted lizard,
'Nice day to take a walk; I might be late.'
He lights his pipe and walks into the blizzard. -
So cold, so cold is his fate.

Eleven miles to our next depot; we
know well it is unlikely, still we plan
to reach it by tonight, but suddenly
a blizzard stops us in our tracks again.
There's food for some more days if we are sparing,
but there's no fuel left to keep us warm
in the damp chilly clothes that we are wearing. -
So cold, so cold is the storm.

Two weeks have passed, and still the blizzard's rage
remains unbroken while we cannot stay:
unfit to fill discovery's last page,
unfit to live; the others passed away,
and I am left to pray for the departed
between their corpses, under hostile skies,
alone, away from all and broken-hearted. -
So cold, so cold are their eyes.

It won't be long before I'll be relieved
of all the pangs of hunger and despair,
and, thinking of the things that I achieved,
I'll leave you. Falcons perish in the air;
the homely pigeons die beneath the steeple.
I'm ready, I'm prepared to meet my end
tonight; for God's sake, look after our people! -
So cold, so cold is Death's hand.

Then they said, 'Come, let us build ourselves a city, and a tower with its top in the heavens, and let us make a name for ourselves,
lest we be scattered abroad upon the face of the whole earth.'
-Genesis 11, 4

Sombre and black, without a single motion,
without a single tender wind to blow,
tranquil and calm remained the sleeping ocean,
the patient iceberg waiting for his foe.
- The ocean, the ocean lay still.

And there she came; the dockyard's noblest daughter,
the tallest of the sisters in her day -
gracefully steaming through the quiet water,
the mighty beauty proudly gathered way.
- The ocean, the ocean lay still.

Some older couples stared at the Atlantic,
some honeymooners gazed into the moon,
and while the restless youth became romantic,
the band performed a merry ragtime tune.
- The ocean, the ocean lay still.

The diners raised their heads and joined the chorus,
and someone heard a member of the crew
say, 'There's an iceberg starboard waiting for us -
they say that you can smell 'em, and I do.'
- The ocean, the ocean lay still.

'Last orders,' rang the bell at half eleven
because the time to say goodnight was near;
before the blackness of the sea and heaven
a shadow even darker did appear.
- The ocean, the ocean lay still.

'Iceberg ahead!' the lookout got excited,
rang the alarm bell thrice and lost all hope -
he felt the ship was doomed when it was sighted,
and thus he trembled as he pulled the rope.
- The ocean, the ocean lay still.

'Astern! Astarboard!' cried the navigator;
too late, too soon - the wrong time anyway,
for just some seconds earlier or later
his order would have saved the ship that day.
- The ocean, the ocean lay still.

The prow turned left - how softly she was gliding;
a smile of his relief he could not hide,
but as he thought he'd saved her from colliding,
a grating sound came from the starboard side.
- The ocean, the ocean lay still.

The noise disturbed some poker-playing brothers,
so one of them went out into the cold -
he soon returned, and he informed the others,
'We just have grazed an iceberg, I was told.'
- The ocean, the ocean lay still.

'Oh, is that so,' they said and kept on playing,
enjoying their relaxing peaceful trip,
for they felt safe as everyone was saying
that even God himself couldn't sink the ship.
- The ocean, the ocean lay still.

The worried skipper ran as fast as never
before; a passenger just raised his drink,
'An iceberg on the maiden trip - how clever,
a brilliant chance to prove she cannot sink!’
- The ocean, the ocean lay still.

'Let's leave this boring game of bridge to Mother;
we'll go on deck and have a little fun,'
and gladly throwing ice at one another,
some adults played like children in the sun.
- The ocean, the ocean lay still.

A snobby undertaker rolled his eyeball
and called the waitress, 'Please excuse me, Miss:
I've ordered some more ice for my large highball,
but not that much - this is ridiculous!'
- The ocean, the ocean lay still.

'This is a satire: on the upper deck sits
our president while we are going down.'
Staff were instructed, 'Leave the third class exits
barred and inform the others that we'll drown.'
- The ocean, the ocean lay still.

'Come, women, bring your children!' they implored them,
but very few saw the necessity,
and as the men were not allowed to board them,
some half-full lifeboats soon put out to sea.
- The ocean, the ocean lay still.

A sceptic crowd which was politely guided
up to the deck soon had to realise
that those few life jackets that were provided
as well as the few boats would not suffice.
- The ocean, the ocean lay still.

A storied moneygrubber took a jacket,
another one for his Lolita bride,
and yet a third to cut it and to wreck it
and show the girl what it was like inside.
- The ocean, the ocean lay still.

He claimed a lifeboat seat: 'I can afford it;
I'll pay you for your effort,' upon which
he was informed that not one man could board it,
not even someone who was stinking rich.
- The ocean, the ocean lay still.

He told his wife, 'That boat seems most unstable
and bound to capsize with the slightest wave.
Enjoy your trip as long as you are able;
I'll stay right on the ship where I'll be safe.'
- The ocean, the ocean lay still.

A salesman's widow left with grateful thinking
after she'd killed her husband in a fight -
she could not wait to see the colossus sinking,
for with the ship her guilt was out of sight.
- The ocean, the ocean lay still.

'Now here's the lifeboat. Madam, won't you enter?' -
'I can't as I would leave my husband then!' -
'For Christ's sake, mister, take your wife and enter!' -
'I will not leave before the other men.'
- The ocean, the ocean lay still.

'We've almost for a lifetime been together.
We may survive this night or we may drown:
I'll stay with you in sun and icy weather!’
and so they took two deck chairs and sat down.
- The ocean, the ocean lay still.

'No,' said the priest to his young wife with fire,
'there are so many things for us to do;
this is no time for honeymoon's desire,
so come, let's help, and God will help us, too!’
- The ocean, the ocean lay still.

'No one will help us, neither all your brothers
nor any friendly power from above.
You spent your life giving your love to others -
now be a man and let us die in love!'
- The ocean, the ocean lay still.

She foundered with the water she was gaining;
the women, children and some first class men
were sent into the lifeboats still remaining,
and no one dared to turn his head again.
- The ocean, the ocean lay still.

She called for help; not many heard her calling,
though many of her sisters were around,
and some survivors saw a White Star falling
and quickly sinking to the ocean's ground.
- The ocean, the ocean lay still.

A sudden gush of water was surprising
the diners who laid down their fork or spoon,
and while the water on the deck was rising,
the band performed a merry ragtime tune.
- The ocean, the ocean lay still.

All those who could not board the overcrowded
boats died at once in Neptune's gelid den,
and the Atlantic currents soon enshrouded
the Unsinkable and fifteen hundred men.
- The ocean, the ocean lay still.

After she disappeared, there was no motion.
The overcrowded lifeboats left the scene;
tranquil and calm remained the sleeping ocean
where just before the pride of man had been.
- The ocean, the ocean lay still.

‘It was a good fight anyhow.’ – The O’Rahilly

On Good Friday he burst into Patrick Pearse' study
and brandished a rifle, ‘Whoever should plan
to kidnap me, too, better be a bloody
quick shot!’ he exclaimed at the terrified man.

‘Calm down,’ Pearse replied. ‘It is hardly surprising
that you are upset, but Hobson is safe.
He's only detained; he caught wind of the rising,
but we’ll free him on Sunday – no need to chafe.’

The O'Rahilly laughed, ‘You have got no equipment
nor weapons; you'll pay a terrible price!’ -
‘We've a chance, for tonight we're expecting a shipment
from Germany.’ - ‘Hell, what a blood sacrifice!’

On Saturday calls for a cancellation
were made since the shipment was lost, and a fierce
O'Rahilly travelled the South of the nation
all night, countermanding the orders of Pearse.

On Easter Monday he rose and, finding
out the rising was going ahead, just like
a dart he dashed over, ‘Since I've helped winding
up the clock, I have come here to hear it strike!’

He was welcomed, and Constance asked him with gladness,
‘Did you not denounce this as mad?’ - He replied,
‘It's madness all right, but it's glorious madness!’
and joined the rebels with presage and pride.

From Liberty Hall, with specific commissions,
some four hundred passionate volunteers
spread out to seize their respective positions;
The O'Rahilly was assigned to Pearse.

They entered the GPO and gently
led staff and customers out of the door;
The O'Rahilly and some others intently
took up their posts on the busy first floor.

In a phone box he found a young soldier, unable
to post greeting cards at this awkward time
since Mick Collins had tied him with telephone cable;
‘Untie him – this man has committed no crime.’

Patrick Pearse proclaimed the Republic under
the Tricolour out on Sackville Street;
some sniggered at him and some gazed in wonder,
but most took no heed and kept moving their feet.

With the post office fortified, those in attendance
heard O'Rahilly say, ‘We're dead meat now and thus
human sacrifices to Independence;
let's hope that the Brits will accept them from us!’

A small troop of soldiers was sent to get answers
as to what went on and got caught in a blaze
of gunfire; the rebels shot four of the lancers
and a horse which lay dead on the road for five days.

The O'Rahilly watched as a crowd of civilians
entered shops through the broken windows and doors
and plundered fur coats and jewels worth millions;
‘We die for their freedom, and they loot the stores.’

On Tuesday evening Lord Wimborne, in writing,
declared martial law as the army clamped down
on the rebels; the GPO saw no fighting,
but they heard the gunfire throughout the town.

On Wednesday affairs got a little more iffy
when, being done with Liberty Hall,
a gunboat named Helga attacked from the Liffey
and artillery answered the rebels' call.

Surprised at the heavy bombardment, the gritty
James Connolly took a deep breath and swore,
‘I didn't expect them to shell the city
centre, being capitalists to the core.’

By Thursday when Sackville Street was burning
and the city centre cordoned off,
the lads came to terms with the very concerning
awareness of pending defeat and scoff.

On Friday afternoon, on the border
of doom, with the GPO on fire,
The O'Rahilly calmly received his last order
and remarked, ‘They keep saying that God loves a trier.’

Being asked to lead a small band as the curtain
for the rebels fell and attempt one last bold
dash for shelter, he said, ‘It's the end for certain;
but what if we'd missed this and died of the cold?’

With a dozen men he ventured the sally,
but he was gunned down and collapsed in pain;
he managed to drag himself into an alley
and lay on a doorstep in Sackville Lane.

An ambulance passed in the night; the alerted
young driver got out to assist and went near,
but an officer ordered him back and asserted,
‘He's important, we've orders to leave him here.’

On Saturday morn to his wife whom he cherished
he composed a note as he lingered, clothed
in green uniform; then The O'Rahilly perished
for a cause he endorsed in a battle he loathed.

Was it because the last surviving Tommy
became the centre of attention with
warmongers drooling over him who vainly
tried to convince him to endorse the myth
of wars being justified while he kept stating
that war is organised mass murder? No,
that's not how Harry Patch became a hero.
Was it how the unworthy did bestow
titles and tinsel on the man they'd call
a hero for his service? Not at all,
that's not how Harry Patch became a hero.

Was it because when Harry was conscripted
to fight in World War I, he made a pact
with fellow soldiers, pledging he would never
kill? Keeping his humanity intact
came at the risk of facing a court martial
and firing squad if he had been found out,
and yet he never took a life, defying
his orders with convictions firm and stout.
His silent but effective bravery
was disobeying rogue authority;
yes, that's how Harry Patch became a hero!

The church bells all rang out to celebrate
the armistice that morning; getting dressed,
Harriet watched the people pass their gate:
‘Wilfred will soon be home now,’ she professed.

The war to end all wars had ended, and
a happy crowd rejoiced out on the street.
Harriet gently touched her husband's hand:
‘Wilfred will soon be home; we'll be complete.’

His poems on the savagery of war
had made their son a small celebrity,
and shortly he'd be standing at their door:
‘Wilfred will soon be home with you and me.’

A messenger then rang the doorbell: ‘Ma'am,
I am afraid I bring a telegram.’

The Mediterranean was in motion
as tens of thousands fled,
and thousands drowned amidst the ocean
that won't return its dead.

Escaping war and prosecution,
they brought naught but their skin;
the boat trip seemed the sole solution
to save their lives and kin.

From war-torn Europe they were pouring
into the Middle East;
one man arrived, set on restoring
his pride - his life at least.

Ashore a Syrian provided
refreshments, fresh though plain,
for him and others, and he guided
the people to their train.

Wrapped up in blankets from the depot,
they waited, quite amazed,
for their transferral to Aleppo
where shelters had been raised.

He told the Syrian, ‘I never
met such goodwill, it's true,
and we cannot repay you ever
for everything you do.’

The Syrian replied demurely,
‘Relax and stop that fuss,
for if the tables turned, you surely
would do the same for us.’

‘Life is too short to hesitate
when fighting evil,’ Beppo said.
‘To end the world’s horrific state,
we must remove the monster’s head,
although our future may be bleak:
our graves are waiting as we speak.

‘Our bulletins reach thousands, some
of whom may sabotage supplies,
and yet the beast will not succumb.
Besides, a network of this size
is almost bound to have a leak:
our graves are waiting as we speak.

‘I know of an accountant who
works in the chancellery; in days
to come he will be trying to
get close to Hitler and embrace
the opportunity we seek:
our graves are waiting as we speak.’

As Beppo Römer and his aide
sealed envelopes to their avowed
supporters and some unafraid
protagonists, they heard the loud
shuffling of boots outside before
someone was knocking at the door.

The guard sniffed Joshua like he was a turd.
‘You stink,’ he said and added with a smirk,
‘you should be whipped, but I'll put in a word
for you to get a shower after work.’

The boy knew what this meant, for often he
had to dig trenches for the corpses which
came out of there while forced to joyfully
sing Onward Christian Soldiers in the ditch.

‘I cannot wait for that great day to come,’
the fervent guard addressed the warder, ‘when
our country will be free of Jewish scum,
thanks to the tireless efforts of our men.

‘Praise God that in his wisdom he saw fit
to send a leader who, by Jesus' grace,
will rid us of subhumans and won't quit
until the master race reclaims its place.

‘These rats will nevermore control our lives
and stick their crooked noses in affairs
not theirs, nor interfere with virtuous wives
and daughters since we emptied out their lairs.

‘And now the enemy who tried to heist
our country lies defeated and will pay
the price God charges for rejecting Christ -
what are these heathens good for, anyway?’

‘Karl carved a world map on a Jewish hide,’
the warder winked at him, ‘which is no small
feat,’ and his colleague giggled and replied,
‘So they may serve a purpose after all.’

Joshua who feared the closing of the day
prayed for a miracle to happen, yards
from his tormentors, list'ning in dismay,
when the commander went up to the guards.

He told them, ‘I'm afraid I'll have to damp
your merry spirits; Himmler has at last
sent orders to evacuate the camp
because the Soviets are approaching fast.’

A few years later Joshua led his troop
into the Promised Land, the rich reward
for suffering, and he addressed the group,
‘No mercy is the motto of the Lord!

‘We have been given half a country; now
we have to cleanse it of the parasites
it is infested with, and we shall vow
to slaughter those who disregard our rights.

‘The Palestinians who have refused
to leave their homes and flee the country must
be killed on sight, and any weapon used
is good enough for them; our cause is just!

‘God has commanded us, because we are
his chosen people, to exterminate
these foul abominable vermin bar
none for their sloth, their godlessness and hate.

‘And before long we'll also take the rest
of what was promised to our people by
the Lord of Hosts, and there will be no nest
for the unchosen ones to hide; they'll die.’

A family ran past them, and his men
managed to shoot two children in a trice.
The rest sought shelter in the mosque; that's when
Joshua set off an anti-tank device.

And as he checked, there was no single trace
of any person in the empty hall,
but then he noticed, past the vacant space,
their flattened bodies sticking to the wall.

‘Come here,’ he told the others, ‘and admire
this stunning work of art; does it not look
like a Chagall? This image could inspire
our future artists to a children's book.

‘All these barbarians don't care about
our moral values and don't know our pow'rs;
we shall not rest until they're all wiped out
and the entire Holy Land is ours!'

This genocide is now officially declared
open, and there are many reasons to be scared:
the British ceased their occupation to replace
it with a foreign people to invade our space,
to take our land and exile us from where we've dwelled
from ages immemorial to be dispelled,
and those who lost their home will always have to roam.

Eight hundred thousand have to leave their homes behind;
Semites displaced by Semites who regard their kind
as the superior race and chosen people who
are justified by God in everything they do,
strongly supported by the powers that insist
that both our people and our country don't exist,
and those who lost their home will always have to roam.

And so our exodus begins; we have to yield
each orange orchard, olive grove and mustard field
that has provided for our happy families
with its abundance over bygone centuries.
Villages are demolished and our blood is spilled
as those refusing to evacuate are killed,
but those who lost their home will always have to roam.

The never-ending train of refugees leaves tracks:
Muslims and Christians are now forced to turn their backs
on their own heritage, not knowing where to go
nor how to get there, with their spirits being low.
While some find shelter in what's left of Palestine
for the time being, most of us have no design,
and those who lost their home will always have to roam.

Of those who didn't starve to death and who weren't shot
there's hardly anybody who will find a spot
to settle. An unwanted people, we endure
the knowledge that our lives will never be secure.
We're outlaws in our stolen country; anyone
may kill us on the street with nothing being done,
and those who lost their home will always have to roam.

The future that awaits us will be bleaker still:
the scrap of land that the UN has left us will
be occupied as well. Millions of refugees
will languish in our neighbours' camps; our future sees
hundreds of thousands murdered for their native land
amidst a nescient world that fails to understand
while those who lost their home will always have to roam.

When our ancestral home at last became
a different country with a different name
in which the brash intruders freely roam
while we are hated aliens at home,
we knew we would be decimated and assigned the blame.

Professing God has ordered them to take
our country as their own, they come to stake
their claims across our fields and force us from
our homes which they'll take over with aplomb
or build their own upon the ruins of what we must forsake.

The heartless settlers call us vermin while
they kill our kin and children with a smile
and violate their corpses, and they fuel
their people's hatred against ours; the cruel
invaders treat us like we are invaders they revile.

We're hunted down like animals, and just
like animals we're slaughtered with disgust.
Some spit at us and tell us to go back
to where we came from, others will attack
and cripple us to watch us as we're dying in the dust.

And anyone who with an upward fist
reclaims his home is called a terrorist
and butchered with his folks without ado
by the self-appointed chosen people who
relentlessly pursue a people with no right to exist.

Building their cities on our orchards and
our fields and always ready to expand,
burning our crops and relishing our strife,
the settlers celebrate their way of life
and claim they brought civilisation to a savage land.

Christians from Europe craving land
'discovered' countries that had been
already populated and
enslaved or killed the people in
their colonies and thought it right:
they were not Christian and not white.

Unto this day they keenly keep
stealing resources, land and wealth
and produce that they didn't reap
by brutal force, deceit or stealth
and henceforth blame their victims' dearth
on being of inferior birth.

And now, as bigots tend to do,
white folk who unashamedly roam
the lands they stole tell others who
arrive in them to go back home,
not grasping why one would resent
their notions of entitlement.

Today we claim that we have brought
civilisation to the globe,
build monuments to those who sought
to slay the natives and don't probe
into the facts but rather hold
the worldview that we have been told.

And we commemorate our white
heroes with jingoistic glee,
sing solemn dirges and recite
grave patriotic poetry
about the glory of it all
lest we recall, lest we recall!

(Response to Rudyard Kipling's Recessional)

He was the Matthew Hopkins of
the Cold War era, ne’er
afraid to rant about the threat
he deemed the great Red Scare.
Behind each desk and cabinet
he saw a communist
with party membership and claimed
he even had a list.

He caused a panic never seen
before; men, every day,
denounced all those with different views
or who were in their way.
Those questioning the status quo
would lose their jobs and friends,
and many even went to gaol
or met untimely ends.

He ruined countless lives without
producing his long list
which, as we safely can assume
today, did not exist.
Since homosexuality
was outlawed, he’d declare
they were susceptible to blackmail,
adding the Lavender Scare.

But after years his star declined
and entered the abyss.
He drowned his grief in spirits which,
in turn, drowned him; yet his
own multipresent spirit haunts
all halls where statesmen swear
they’ve knowledge to invoke the great
___ (fill in the blank here) Scare.

The nine skied hard against the wind that froze their every limb,
and as the air around them thinned and winter's face turned grim
Sasha kept shivering and said, ‘They're after us, it's true:
they want you to believe I'm mad so they can take you, too!’

‘We have no choice but to turn back,’ Ludmilla claimed. ‘We will
not be successful on our trek with Sasha being ill.
His hypothermia won't allow him to go on for long;
we cannot climb Otorten now, to do so would be wrong!’

‘All right, let's settle for the night,’ Igor put down his pack.
‘Tomorrow morning at first light we shall be heading back.’
But suddenly a blazing flash blinded the mountaineers;
‘My face feels like it's burnt to ash!’ Zena was close to tears.

The light that stung like thousand darts had caught them by surprise.
‘They're testing weapons in these parts,’ said Nick and rubbed his eyes.
‘We'll have to get away from here,’ Igor, regaining sight,
expressed, ‘Dead Mountain is quite near, that's where we'll spend the night.’

‘They're testing weapons, but not ours,’ Sasha assured his mates,
‘they are the other superpower's; it's the United States
attacking us to cause our fall,’ while he, with watchful eye,
kept taking photographs of all explosions in the sky.

‘We must report this incident,’ Sasha just wouldn't quit.
The others soon put up the tent, and then the stove was lit.
They had their supper as outside the falling snow piled deep
and talked about their bumpy ride while Sasha fell asleep.

‘It's called Dead Mountain,’ Zena told the others, unafraid,
‘because back in the days of old nine Mansi hunters stayed
here overnight and died, and yet nobody found out how.’
Yuri replied, slightly upset, ‘That'll be sufficient now.’

So George suggested, ‘Let us sing instead of telling tales
of horror which will only bring us down to no avails.’
He led, the others soon joined in, and Zena said, ‘You know,
you shouldn't have left your mandolin back at the cache below.’

Hours later, in the still of night, Sasha woke up to bawl,
‘How could I not have seen what's right in front of me? You all
are in on this; you all are spies for the US. Begone!’ -
‘Calm down,’ Rustem opened his eyes and switched his flashlight on.

Grabbing a ski stick, Sasha rose, struck Rustem on the head
and cut the tip off George's nose. ‘He's gone completely mad -
get out!’ Igor cried frantically and punched him in the face;
the rest cut through the tent to flee and find a safer place.

Rustem got up, and even though still dazed and in dismay,
he fended off another blow before he made his way
down to the wood where all the rest had gathered in the storm
and where they tried to find the best way to stay safe and warm.

Dressed for the night, they now were left out in the arctic cold;
freezing, they found themselves bereft of warmth and reached the bold
decision that they'd light a fire despite the jeopardy
that they were in, and the entire group sat beneath a tree.

Nick took his flashlight and began to climb the cedar so
he could alert the others when Sasha approached, but no
attempt succeeded since his weight broke every branch he found;
Alex and Igor shared his fate and landed on the ground.

‘He can't have wandered very far in his condition; if
he left the camp, then chances are that he's already stiff,’
said Zena. ‘Igor, Rustem and myself will venture back,
and if it's safe when we ascend we'll shout and hit the sack.’

The three set out to reach the camp, but Igor soon broke down,
heavily shaking in the damp new snow as if he'd drown.
He said, ‘Just leave me, I beseech you!’ with deflated breath,
but neither of his friends would reach the tent; they froze to death.

When Alex wakened from a deep slumber he saw that Nick
and Ludmilla, too, were vast asleep, and then he felt quite sick:
the elements had claimed a dire and terrifying toll -
Yuri and George slumped o'er the fire, their fingers burnt to coal.

‘They're dead,’ he said, ‘we may as well take some of their attire
to keep us warm; I think we shall not light another fire
but look for a more sheltered space down there in the ravine:
it'll be more difficult to trace us where we can't be seen.’

They dug a shelter, and they laid it out with twigs they found
and warmed each other, dead afraid of everything around.
Sasha kept stumbling aimlessly without a plan or plot,
but when he heard their voices, he approached their hidden spot.

Standing in front of them, he struck Nick's head which almost split,
but Alex, with a little luck, just seized his stick and hit
Sasha across the chest before he grabbed it back, and so
Ludmilla yelled, ‘Stop, I implore you – you need help, you know!’

‘You've always had the sharpest tongue.’ he said and cut it out,
he punched her in the face and swung his skiing stick about,
he smashed her ribs, and as she sunk into the blood-red snow,
he staggered like a flustered drunk, collapsed and stayed down low.

Alex awoke once more to be affrighted, scared to look;
the last man, hardly standing, he froze bitterly and took
Ludmilla's hat and coat, and when the world around turned white,
he slowly drifted off again into that frigid night.

Their country had at last been liberated;
the former playground of the United States
now offered all its prospects and resources
to its own people as good sense dictates.

So Washington decided to retake it
by exiles, in earnest thinking that irate
Cubans would join them marching on Havana;
they didn’t, rather fighting for their state.

As Kennedy assessed the situation
at hand, he was determined to save face:
‘We have to prove we still can be successful,’
he pondered, ‘and Vietnam looks like the place.’

'This was not only the most dangerous moment of the Cold War. It was the most dangerous moment in human history.'
- ARTHUR M SCHLESINGER JR, advisor to John F Kennedy

World history provides too few examples
of people using prudence when they face
demands or expectations, and the samples
we know of often fall into disgrace
once individual judgment triumphed over
mindless compliance and conformity
in disregard of what the herd and drover
presumed: in line is the sole place to be.

Preparing for the next US invasion,
Cuba requested nuclear missiles from
the Soviet Union, and not much persuasion
was necessary to receive the bomb.
The launch facilities were soon detected,
and Kennedy's staid aides suggested force.
War seemed inevitable; most expected
a nuclear holocaust to run its course.

While Kennedy and Khrushchev, in summation,
due to resolve and level-headedness,
deserve full credit for de-escalation,
their peace hung by a thread or even less -
the slightest skirmish, and the oceanic
arena would have seen the war unfold;
while these two men kept calm throughout the panic,
it took a third to keep the Cold War cold.

US destroyers dropped, amidst the hassle,
depth charges near a Soviet submarine
to force it to the surface; as the vessel
could not receive transmissions, it was seen
as an attack and, sure the war had started,
its captain sought to enter the abyss,
although Vasily Arkhipov imparted,
'They want us to emerge, that's why they miss.'

The captain, reasserting his position,
ordered to launch a nuclear missile - three
keys were required to execute the mission;
each senior officer possessed a key.
The captain turned his key as if routinely
with a firm steady hand that wouldn't quit;
the other officer turned his less keenly
while Arkhipov took his and swallowed it.

The voice that disappears can still be heard
by those who listen; men who cause displeasure
can easily be silenced, but no measure
remove their past already spoken word.

When activists attempted to increase
the state’s black vote, they faced much opposition;
soon Mississippi burned due to their mission,
and three were killed by Klansmen and police.

Their brutal murders, as the public saw
the vile reality of segregation,
sped up the passage of new legislation,
and civil rights were written into law.

Their fellowship could not have been much prouder:
the voice that disappears calls all the louder.

The bright full moon shone through the broken window
of the abandoned church to peek inside.
‘You’re sure she is a virgin?’ someone whispered.
‘I’m positive,’ somebody else replied.

As she eventually came to it, Gemma
opened her eyes and realised she lay
tied up and naked on the stony altar,
a human sacrifice put on display.

Thirteen of her most popular fellow students
surrounded her as etiquette requests,
dressed in medieval garments which overtly
pronounced their figures and exposed their breasts.

Holding a ceremonial dagger, Kristy,
her boyfriend Walter’s sister, took the stage,
informing Gemma, ‘I shall now be spilling
your virgin blood so I will never age.’

But suddenly the sacristy door flew open
and Walter cut her free. ‘Run, run and save
yourself!’ - He took her trembling hand, and promptly
the two were legging it across the nave.

They headed for the gate but found it guarded
by Kristy’s sturdy boyfriend with a sword,
and since the wall was far too high to climb it,
all other options had to be explored.

They sneaked into the churchyard, and he told her,
‘If we stay hidden until break of day,
we’ll be all right.’ - She asked, ‘What are you doing
in here? I’m greatly puzzled, I must say.’

‘I long suspected Kristy of black magic,
and so I followed her tonight because
it’s a full moon, but certainly I didn’t
expect to find you in my sister’s claws.’

They heard the others’ voices which came closer,
and so they calmly moved from stone to stone
to keep out of their sight, but Kristy’s witches
were not prepared to leave the pair alone.

When all was quiet Gemma begged him, ‘Take me!’
and kissed his lips and gently pulled him down.
‘Did you not want to save yourself for marriage?’
her baffled boyfriend asked her with a frown.

‘Once I am sacrificed there’ll be no marriage,
but if I’m not a virgin I will be
useless to your mad sister,’ she insisted,
‘who’ll hopefully agree to set me free.’

‘Are you quite sure?’ he let her reconsider,
but when she nodded he gave in at last
and relished pleasures he had only dreamt of
in the young couple’s uneventful past.

Kristy approached the lovers who, surrounded
by the armed coven, had nowhere to go,
with an intense mysterious expression
and high-fived Walter: ‘Happy birthday, bro!’

‘You must get an abortion, Ronda,’
her mum and dad went wild.
‘What will our pastor and our brethren
think if you have a child?’

Her fiancé and future in-laws
continued, too, to urge
her, ‘We do have a reputation
to think of in our church.’

‘Once we are married we'll have children,
as many as you want,
but God does not intend our union
now to be blessed upfront.’

Facing such opposition Ronda,
finally giving in,
made an appointment to get rid of
the symptom of her sin.

But as she went to bed that evening,
the image of a friend
kept haunting her who had aborted
and started to descend.

She would be hearing children's laughter
out of the blue and sigh,
‘I can't believe I killed my baby,’
and start to sob and cry.

After a sleepless nightmare Ronda,
when she got up at morn,
decided that she'd keep her daughter,
and Emily was born.

When she was seven years, her mother
who volunteered with strong
emotions in the pro-life centre
brought Emily along.

Next door was an abortion clinic,
and in the weirdest twist
she, of all people, bonded with a
foul-mouthed abortionist.

Norma McCorvey was not only
assisting to abort
but had made history by winning
Roe versus Wade in court.

Returning Emily's affection
still made her slightly sweat;
Norma had dealt with many children,
just not a live one yet.

Then, during their unlikely friendship,
Norma one day arrived
in Ronda's office who informed her
how Emily survived.

As Norma listened to the story,
she felt her guts entwine;
the thought of Emily aborted
sent shivers down her spine.

Another day she passed a poster
displaying, bit by bit,
fetal development, and Norma
just stood and stared at it.

Looking at tiny eyes and fingers,
she realised the plight
of children in the womb, declaring,
‘Good heavens, they are right!’

Distraught at such a heavy burden
her conscience had to face,
all of a sudden Norma started
reflecting on her case.

She couldn't put, like other people,
her past upon a shelf,
‘My lie has made abortion legal -
I can't forgive myself!’

‘But Jesus can and will forgive you,’
Ronda assured her friend,
‘and Christians fight to make abortion
illegal in this land.’

The thought of an authority with
the power to forgive
her what she'd done appealed to her and
restored her will to live.

She bowed to one whom she believed to
reclaim her soul from hell
and who'd provide a better place for
the little ones as well.

Welcomed by Christian congregations,
Norma commenced her strife,
and with her pastor and her brethren
she's now promoting life.

The vampire governments have risen who centuries ago
despoiled and terrorised their people; they’re back to stay and show
no mercy in their ruthless bloodlust, and after they have fed
themselves, they feed their hoggish masters for whom a myriad bled.

The blood of innocents and paupers tastes best to them, but when
they had their fill, they’re far from finished; the blood of many men
is needed to enhance their status and demonstrate their wealth:
blood fills their swimming pools and fountains where it improves their health.

In reservoirs and water towers they store our precious blood,
and nothing can reduce the volume of its unceasing flood;
the masters under whose direction our governments have grown
compare how many million barrels of human blood they own.

The vampire governments keep draining our blood for them and swear
that those who die are merely weaklings who don’t deserve our care.
But come election time, their power and mission are at stake,
and so they plead with you and me for their and their masters’ sake.

‘We’re not to blame, don’t drive that wooden stake through our hearts,’ they woo,
‘the guilty ones are those migrating to rob you of the few
blood drops that you have left, the people who are too ill to earn
a living, students without money who still aspire to learn,

‘All those whose way of life is different, thus causing you unease,
but we’ll intensify our efforts to rid the world of these.’
And the anaemic voters like that their rulers are so firm,
so vampire governments are voted in for another term.

Venetia, having had her breakfast, hovered
around the table where, intensively,
her granddad read the paper, 'They've discovered
another planet which we cannot see
and seek a name for it.' - With a bright spark
the girl unwittingly approached the portals
of fame, 'I'd call him Pluto - he is dark
and makes himself invisible to mortals.'

A lifetime afterwards it has been noted
that Pluto was no planet, and instead
it was discussed that he should be demoted.
Asked her opinion, the old lady said,
'I'd like him to remain a planet, yet
I guess it doesn't really matter whether
he is or isn't.' - Shortly after that
Venitia and her godchild left together.

They're not heroes who kill thousands
for a governmental medal:
heroes risk their reputations,
their own safety and their lives
by standing up for what is right, regardless
of consequences they might have to face.

Weapons expert David Kelly
had to find some mass destructive
weapons as a British pretext
to invade Iraq - but there
were none, and Kelly, after going public,
conveniently ‘committed suicide’.

And when Julian Assange created
WikiLeaks, exposing war crimes,
he had no idea he'd end up
with a trumped-up rape charge, but
was granted Ecuadorian asylum
till he reported on their president.

Bradley Manning who supplied him
with a lot of information
of the wars was not so lucky;
when his sentence was pronounced
he had to realise exposing war crimes
carries a harsher sentence than the crimes.

When Malala Yousafzai broadcast
how the Taliban closed girls' schools
the young girl was shot; she managed
to recover, and despite
continued death threats she still keeps campaigning
for girls' and women's educational rights.

Edward Snowden told the public
how their governments are spying
on their citizens; accused of
espionage (the irony!)
he fled to Russia where he has been granted
asylum on a temporary base.

There are more - some whom we know of,
others who'll remain forever
undisclosed, but still their courage
makes this world a better place:
we should be grateful to our most distinguished
first heroes of the Third Millennium!

Faint promise brought you here, the hope to find
what others seek as well, and all around
you see their shanties, awkwardly designed,
where lots of gold is waiting to be found.

The gun's the law, and life is cheap; you will
get used to bodies lying in your way
as you approach the goldmine in the hill
and know quite well it could be you some day.

You and the others live in poverty,
hoping to soon escape its clutches by
striking it lucky, but, as you will see,
one may succeed in thousand men who try.

We brought young girls, some of them natives, here,
who will be offering the diggers brief
spells of distraction and, just for one beer,
provide them entertainment and relief.

Waste can be thrown into the river, dumped
beside the road or dropped into the dale,
and once enough bacteria have clumped,
another epidemic will prevail.

You'll find it difficult to breathe in this
most elevated human settlement.
The air is thin; you struggle but dismiss
the thought of turning back which you resent.

It's cold all year, the lines are mostly down,
the Internet is shaky, but you're bound
to stay, despite the hardships, in the place
where lots of gold is waiting to be found.

'Ma'am, would you please collect your son?
He's in our custody.' -
'My God, what has the rascal done?
Speeding again? Dear me.'

'No, ma'am, your son has, to be frank,
proceeded to invade
our country in a Russian tank,
and now he is afraid.

'He was misled; we understand
that, to his own dismay,
he was required to attend
manoeuvres for a day.

'Come down to Kyiv, pick up your
misguided child, and then
bring him back home and just make sure
he won't invade again.'

In Germany, just eighty years ago,
a person who would publicly declare
that Jewish people have the right to exist
would be attacked and booked by the police.

In modern Germany a person who
dares to declare in public nowadays
that Palestinians have the right to exist
will be attacked and booked by the police.

When Maryam who had nine months ago
been impregnated as the great reward
for being a good girl, and meekly so,
gave birth to Isa, he was much adored.

Their kin assemble in their house that's been
the family home for centuries, and joy
reigns as the relatives are pouring in
with presents for the little baby boy.

But suddenly a mob of settlers breaks
into their home with guns aimed at the lot,
pushes them out with barrels and with stakes
and executes the newborn with one shot.

The settlers set up house as they condemn
the natives to seek shelter from the snow.
So this is Christmas Eve in Bethlehem,
quite different from two thousand years ago.

Some leaders who are holding
our Western values dear
sign bombs for little children
they'll never see or hear.

Each death is celebrated,
a victory of Good
over barbaric Evil
that'd fight back if it could.

They truly are defending
the Holy Land, no doubt,
against a native people
God wants to see wiped out.

After she took her children
who loved to sing and play
to their Latina nanny,
she went about her day.
Her Pakistani doctor
then put her mind at ease:
'Just take your medication,
and soon the pain will cease.'
A Brazilian trimmed her hair and
she walked a block to grab
a Chinese takeaway just
before she called a cab.
The Eritrean driver
now had to speed so she
could make the demonstration
in Washington, DC.
She stopped at the Korean
print shop to get her sign,
and at a stall she purchased
a Chilean clementine.
Nearing her destination,
she hurried, striding past
the Indian Museum,
and found her crowd at last.
She joined the angry protest
to voice the white man's strife
and waved her placard, screaming,
'Protect our way of life!'

We're living in a Weimar world, and night
has fallen on a planet rife with fear
as now we witness in the moon's pale light
a future without promise drawing near.

Amidst the hanging trees of days gone by
the strongmen ride and wield their scythes and ring
their false alarm bells; as their ravens fly,
we're scared of what tomorrow's dawn may bring.

They knew it'd happen but could not foresee
the sheer amount of blood that soon would spill
across the disunited states until
the beast would be defeated, partially.

One's brother soon could be one's enemy
whom one may be obliged to shoot and kill.
Some disbelieved that it would happen, still
most were aware and let their fears run free.

The mantle of foreboding fell upon
the day, and when the gleam of dusk was gone,
all that remained was horror and tristesse.

That night they went to bed uneasily
to, as the sun rose o'er the shining sea,
wake up to years of bloodshed and distress.

For many years he entertained deaf ears,
raging against the hierarchies of yore
amongst the islanders who, as he fears,
now hate each other more than e'er before,
knowing that the event horizon nears.
Looking for peace, he sounds his voice once more:

Long have I warned your people without cease -
undo the structures keeping you oppressed,
desert all gods and burn the golden fleece
which cause your hatred, fear and terror lest
idolatry kill all! I've said my piece;
give me your ears or somewhere I can rest.

Once a landlord in a pretty
valley ran its inn. His chilling
look was feared, and so the city
called his place 'The Evil Host's':
with every room he offered for a shilling
he used to moan about his ha'penny costs.

All the time he was forgetting
salt and change for every table,
every room that he was letting
was minute and bare and cold,
his meals were small and dear, his chairs unstable,
his ale was flat and thin, his bread was old.

He was wealthy, he was greedy,
and he roamed the streets with pleasure:
there he robbed the poor and needy,
and he snatched the beggars' hats.
Another fav'rite pastime in his leisure
was kicking wife and children, dogs and cats.

On the outskirts of the valley
lived the rich and cultivated.
Once he walked along their alley,
and the host became upset:
he didn't know them, for they celebrated
in their own mansions every time they met.

As the city's sole purveyor
he announced a public meeting
to appoint himself Lord Mayor
and proclaim the mayor's law:
no visit was allowed, no talk, no greeting
outside the city's inn for evermore;

Everybody had to render
contributions to his dive now;
every critic and offender
would be put to death at once;
no public enemy'd be left alive now;
the may'r will be succeeded by his sons.

Thus enforcing law and orders
his regime was constituted,
and within the valley's borders
no one dared to talk again;
the few who did were swiftly executed,
and every night the inn was full of men.

Nothing passed unknown: no stealthy
visit and no word of gumption.
His new customers were wealthy,
so he charged a higher price:
this caused his guests to limit their consumption
which activated once again his vice.

With a club he struck their heads and
took their money and possessions,
tore their mantles into shreds and
left them bleeding on the floor.
Nightclubbing was the strongest of his passions
until they brought their valuables no more.

Soon some helpers were recruited:
his own wife, his sons and daughters
broke into their homes and looted
them and took what they could find.
The host was bringing them their ales or waters;
meanwhile his clan left not a nail behind.

Facing poverty, his latest
customers were now refraining
from their visits, and his greatest
business loss aroused his hate:
mere fractions of his profits were remaining,
and once again the host became irate.

Thinking of a vengeful gesture,
finally, one Sunday morning
after Mass he changed his vesture
and put on the mayor's gown.
He went to their estates; without a warning
he lit a torch and burnt their houses down.

Mighty flames were now appearing
which destroyed their living places;
after hours the smoke was clearing
where their mansions once had been.
In ragged clothes and with disfigured faces
the few survivors stood before the inn.

'Help us, please! Our living centre
is destroyed, and we are leaving
from the ruins - let us enter!'
But he laughed and held his spouse,
'Why should we share the wealth we’ve been achieving?
Go home and get a job and build a house!'

Some preferred to die as quickly
as they could and started speaking
to each other while some sickly
ones went to the woods and prayed,
and some refused to leave; the host was freaking,
and with his guests he shot the ones who stayed.

Soon the city celebrated
with its self-appointed leader,
and the Evil Host created
loopholes for their hunting game.
I'll meet you in his inn tonight, dear reader:
the host still serves, and Europe is his name.

Once upon a time, or rather
in the gloomy future ages,
lived a kind and caring father,
loving husband, man of fame,
a scientist of life who viewed the pages
of history and hung his head in shame,

Knowing of the awful slaughters
that attend all human cultures,
parents killing sons and daughters,
noble races, slain in wars;
men seeking carrion like hungry vultures,
yet not to feed themselves - what is the cause?

Genocide is somewhat newer:
soldiers fought for tribe or nation
when the men on earth were fewer,
but the knights would slay the knights;
yet since the world's Americanization
the innocent expire in pointless fights.

The contempt for life in cities
seems to be the worst: they care not
while the countryman still pities
any neighbour in dismay -
but many townsmen fight and kill and spare not
the old and weak while others look away.

Why is life's esteem so clouded
and its value so rejected
when the place or time is crowded
and the people lack their space?
Could it not be that Nature has protected
herself against an all-consuming race?

So he learned of situations
leading into self-destruction,
of some automutilations
and the rats that eat their brood:
he found the source of mankind’s self-reduction
and started his research in hopeful mood.

He explored the body's guidon
to the cause of fatal features,
and he called it suicidon,
due to the effect it had:
its influence will cause the tamest creatures
to kill their kind and to go raving mad.

Any overpopulated
race must soon destroy her beauty,
therefore Nature has created
suicidon to assure
that no one ever keeps her from her duty,
for always Nature's balance must endure.

Every race she instituted
spreads it to a slight degree - she's
making sure it's well diluted
and its doses fairly small:
as long as there are few of any species,
their suicidon can't be sensed at all.

But in case the population
of a species is increasing
drastically, its concentration
will increase accordingly,
and, sensed by many creatures, its displeasing
effects will set their hate and anger free.

Those will turn against their brothers
and the families they live in,
kill the young and slay their mothers
and exterminate their kind;
the sensible of those who have to give in
at least to kill themselves make up their mind.

Every war, attack, oppression,
homicide and hostile action,
pogrom and the strange impression
life is worthless prior to birth
shows Nature's most destructive self-protection
to limit human beings on her earth.

All the battles of the nations,
poisoners of air and water,
all the nuclear power stations,
careless drivers and hard drugs
attest like priests of violence and slaughter
that suicidon turns us into thugs.

When the substance was located
by the scientist, he sprightly
had a great deal isolated
from his subjects; with a gloat
he stored it in a flask and sealed it tightly
and started to prepare the antidote.

'Conflicts will be disappearing,
and my children should be able
to grow up in peace!' - Then, hearing
breaking glass, he sensed the end:
the wind had blown the flask down from the table -
or was it Nature's own almighty hand?

'Why,' he thought, 'why should I worry?
Am I then my brothers' keeper?
If they want to fight and hurry
to their deaths, let them expire!
Mankind is low, and it will sink much deeper -'
He set his studies and his house on fire.

We expect that future generations
looking back at us will be appalled
at our wars and genocides and servile
worship of dictators we installed,

That a more enlightened people shudder
at atrocities of which we know
on a planet where civilisation
is a buzzword for the status quo.

But I fear that future generations
looking back at us won't raise a brow,
but they'll ask, 'What's the big deal about it?
You should see the world we live in now.'

The old magician wrung his hands in terror:
now that the world was in the hands of one,
it entered the apocalyptic era
that had been prophesied since time's begun:
a world of tyranny and warfare and poverty unheard
of, should he not succeed in finding the needed secret word.

That word would bring prosperity and gladness,
that word would end all tyranny and wars,
the nations' and religions' raging madness
and render lasting peace to all our shores.
The word is known to just one creature, but she won't set us free:
she was the one who spoke the other and caused our misery.

Mankind's destruction is her only mission:
this planet's oldest demon, older far
than any god, brought greed and competition
to all her neighbours with the nasty scar
of losses for all losers, winners and those who stand aside
since her demand to be their empress was blatantly denied.

She waited for a little tiff with patience,
she spoke the word, and soon she looked upon
the first religion and the first of nations;
then Tiamat, the Whore of Babylon,
set up her watching post where farmers declared themselves to be
rulers and kings and priests of others and shaped their destiny.

She saw mankind creating their first borders
and fight for every little piece of brush;
when man commenced to kill on others' orders,
she watched with glee and wore their blood as blush.
The demon no one ever summoned has almost reached her goal,
and only finding out her secret can give us back our soul!

He read the tablets once again; a caustic
Sumerian hymn to Enki broke the spell.
The old magician shouted, 'An acrostic!
Now I can summon her, and she must tell!'
He drew the zodiac around him and said the words he'd found
by chance and called the vicious demon who entered through the ground.

'I summoned you! You must reveal,' he beckoned,
'the word to end all tyranny and war!'
He flinched as she gained volume by the second
and filled his house; it was not long before
she covered the entire city, and still she seemed to grow,
and in a thund'rous voice she bellowed, 'The secret word is No!'