Four youngsters walked the streets of Hamburg,
the sun burned through the midday air,
and as my mother passed the lads,
she heard them whistling after her.
John Lennon watched her turning round
and, seeing she was pregnant, smiled,
and with a naughty sneer he said:
'That's gonna be a hell of a child!'
The pastel colours that discreetly
predominated flat and mind,
the aunts and uncles who adored me
are things I had to leave behind;
The granny with her bedtime stories
(when long I should have been in bed),
the sign above the ESSO station
(the first word that I ever read);
The walks along the River Elbe
or through the woods, and everywhere
it seemed to me that there was always
some kind of music in the air.
The crystal voices of such singers
as Connie Francis brought us bliss;
though there were other sounds, they wouldn’t
be heard in pious homes like this.
And everybody was nostalgic
and put his memories on a shelf;
but are our memories not better
than, tell me true, the thing itself?
Yet nothing’s lost; I have my music
as long as I will carry on,
and every decade has its magic
which can’t be seen before it’s gone.
No man, Eurydice had sworn,
shall take my heart away,
but as she raised her head one morn,
she heard somebody play.
And she heard Orpheus' lyre caress
the skies and gods above:
he lulled her into happiness,
he lulled her into love.
Today’s dull ears don’t hear the sound,
the poet wastes his fire:
there’s no Eurydice around
who’s captured by the lyre.
Musicians play and sing their tunes
and shake their dreadlocks and behinds,
and just like auditive typhoons
they rock and blow our worlds and minds;
they all got music in their veins,
but I got rhythm in my brains.
Actors follow a written plot
with passion and in every scene
assume a character they're not
to be the star of stage and screen;
they all got acting in their veins,
but I got rhythm in my brains.
The Leader of the World and all
his blindfold satraps barbarise
this planet with their warrior call
and lead mankind to its demise;
they all got evil in their veins,
but I got rhythm in my brains.
A poet should live in an opulent mansion
with a Chrysler plus chauffeur amidst a green dell
while receiving a generous government pension
that covers tobacco and liquor as well.
A poet should always be keenly attended
by girls from all continents, nubile and slim,
who know that their skills will be highly commended,
intently indulging his naughtiest whim.
Like the goldsmith's, the poet's works please the beholder,
and a place gains prestige with such craftsmen around;
but a poet can't feed on a clap on the shoulder,
and a goldsmith is lost where no gold can be found.
This world becomes small, our horizon grows wider.
We’re dropping the weights from our purple balloon;
as Earth is not much of a goldsmith’s provider,
each poet retires to his Forge on the Moon.
I listen to your breath and heartbeat
as Morpheus’ magic gently calms
your anxious breath, your restless heartbeat;
so sleep, sleep tight in my arms.
Now rest your head against my shoulder
while I will marvel at your charms
like Aphrodite’s first beholder
and sleep, sleep sound in my arms.
Drift to the shores of Pan’s endeavour,
where nothing worries, nothing harms
the child I want to hold forever
and sleep, sleep safe in my arms.
Black Pegasus, now spread thy diamond pinions
and cross the stream of Lethe, dark and wide,
and bring me to our Shadow's Lord's dominions
where Beauty lives with Sadness by her side.
And in that Land of Peace I shall recover
from what this painted world has done to me
and on the breast of a voluptuous lover
forget I ever wanted to be free.
Away I must be from the mainland,
away to the turbulent sea,
for Fame rewards average people,
and Love's too expensive for me.
Away I shall sail from conversion,
get rid of the gag and the gyve:
away from the docks of existence,
away from the harbour of Life!
Away, away from this country,
away from the planet of speed,
away with the speediest vessel
from the place which has naught that I need!
I know an isle, and at its shore
no gods nor kings nor slaves
will cloud the vision evermore:
Hy-Brasil o'er the Waves.
It rises from the ocean's ground
all seven years and saves
a soul; he won't return who found
Hy-Brasil o'er the Waves.
Set sail and let us travel West -
ascending from our graves
we'll claim the Island of the Blest:
Hy-Brasil o'er the Waves!
When you're in Sligo, travel forth,
and you will see in glee
Benbulben rising in the North
and pointing towards the sea,
The Cytherean foam upon
the billows of the bay
and the erect hard nipple on
the mound of Knocknarae,
You'll see the cradle of Life's stream
and leave it with regret,
the parturition of a dream
no man can e'er forget.
There’s something about sedimentary rock
at the shore and on hillocks and mountains I climb,
addressing me from a celestial clock
like a postcard from the Dawn of Time.
The shells and the bones of those aeons gone by
created these mountains of limestone around
when mankind was a glimpse in a hominoid's eye
and a door to a world without man could be found.
Small creatures, for millions of years to this day,
have shaped and arranged this whole range and this land
through which mighty glaciers were forcing their way
to the sea where their travels would come to an end.
Yet the moss on those rocks bears the message for me
that life, though it's short, is determined to last,
for, attaching itself to the rocks that I see,
there's new life that's growing on life of the past.
Restless waves pet the cliff where the graveyard
is creating a life of its own,
and the April winds blow through the ruins
of the church at Killaspugbrone;
and the clouds gather over the grassland
that so leniently covers the dead,
and each daffodil, lifeless and withered,
is despondently hanging its head.
But the sun finds his way through the nimbi
like the silk moth that breaks through the floss,
and a skylark sits perched on a gravestone,
and it merrily sings on the cross;
before long it ascends to the heavens,
but I still hear its voice from the skies
as it sings of that day of redemption
when the dead and the daffodils rise.
The August sun unclosed his gates
and smiled on Sligo Bay
where six young women from the States
enjoyed their holiday.
It wasn’t since their childhood that
they saw their native land,
and with a blithe innocuous chat
they sauntered towards the strand.
And there they all tied back their curls,
preparing for a swim,
when an old man approached the girls,
his mien upset and grim:
'Don't swim today! No one is safe;
out on the sea, not far
from here I saw a dark black wave -
the Death Wave of Cuil Irra!'
The women giggled, and they said:
'Old men are so naive -
there's not a myth or legend that
these folk would not believe!'
And as the sound of his heavy boots
was slowly fading away,
they slipped into their bathing suits
and headed for the bay.
One stayed behind - she didn’t heed
the others who’d beseech
her to join in; she’d sit and read
and watch them from the beach.
And further out, and further out
they ventured like the erne:
they didn’t hear their comrade shout
who urged them to return.
And where the water nymphs abide
in the shadow of Queen Maeve,
they saw a tall blonde lady ride
upon a sombre wave.
Her hair was shining like the sun
that framed her naked breasts,
and with her gentle smile she won
the affection of her guests.
Her eyes were blue as is the sea,
the spray pearled off her skin
as she commanded: ‘Come with me
to the Island of Maguin!’
The women watched her, willingly
and keenly following,
but halfway to the island she
became a different thing.
Her golden locks turned into snakes,
foul scales appeared beneath
her waist, and like a row of stakes
she showed her canine teeth.
The frightened women turned away
in terror, and they fought
to escape her grip, but soon the bay
claimed what it long had sought.
And seconds later they were gone
to share the icy grave
of all who e’er laid eyes upon
the Sorceress of the Wave.
No one encountered her of late;
she hides from sun and star,
but somewhere she still lies in wait –
the Death Wave of Cuil Irra!
Like a mountainous vessel that put out to sea
Benbulben's sheer face was the last thing I saw
once your images faded away at the pier
as the barque I embarked on was leaving the shore.
It was hunger that drove me away, and I slaved
on a number of ships so that we could survive,
but the sum I could send you was hardly enough,
and the sum I could keep barely kept me alive.
Oft at night in my cabin I dreamt of the days
I was with you, and each foreign harbour anew
oped my eyes to the voice of my heart which revealed
that I'd rather be home, and be starving with you.
For our hunger burns less with our loved ones around,
and no more through rough ports and strange countries I'll roam;
the grave prow of Benbulben still points towards the sea,
but the journey is over, the sailor is home.
Grotesque mountains enclose the green valley
where the mills of Collooney once stood,
grinding corn for oppressed and oppressors
at the river that runs through the wood.
And the waters still flow through the village,
and the wood and the mountains endure
where the tireless mills of Collooney
once were feeding the rich and the poor.
But the wheels are removed and stand idle
like a church bell deprived of its chime
as the tireless mills of Collooney
have been ground by the Mill of Time.
It's darker now than ever, and we bow
before the saviour of the world; he died,
the sun god sacrificed his life, but now,
three days after he has been crucified,
he'll rise again. Hosanna in the Highest!
Rebirth of Nature, thou must show the way
to the renewal of the life inside:
the longest night leads to the longest day,
the barren fields will bloom, and what has died
shall live again. Hosanna in the Highest!
Returning sun, thou welcomst at thy door
the changing seasons that will bring our fill;
we celebrated Christmas long before
Christianity, and certainly we will
long after it. Hosanna in the Highest!
In the dead of the year with its dim sombre skies
that clothe us with blankets of wind wove with rain,
we cling to the cold barren earth that denies
us the bounties it rendered before on the plain.
And the sun veils itself in a tenebrous robe;
he allows his disciples no glimpse nor a glance
and refuses to generate life on this globe,
and everything happens tomorrow, perchance.
And I’m like the chipmunk who hides underground
where he fears not the frost nor the eagle’s dark wing,
where he lies for the winter and cannot be found,
and nobody knows if he’ll rise in the spring.
Neptune's sons and daughters in their castle deep,
rulers of the waters, have to go to sleep,
whisp'ring with the west wind, whisp'ring softly, whisp'ring.
And the Queen of Twilight with a warm caress
brings you dreams of skylight in her wanting dress,
rustling with the birches, rustling slightly, rustling.
Once our life decembered, we have found our spot:
some will be remembered, some will be forgot,
fading with the sunset, fading gently, fading.
They've got their maps, they follow signs
or travel in a group,
they close their eyes and twirl around
or join a marching troop.
They're led, they lead, they change their ways,
they ask their heart and soul
for guidance, but the lot of them
appears to know their goal.
There's many a voice that’s asking me
to flee or to sojourn:
a crossroads every hundred yards,
I wonder where to turn.
Sometimes I'd like to cut a path
through woods on marshy ground,
but then again I might get lost
without a friend around.
The others seem to have no doubts:
some run and some go slow,
some care, some don't, but nonetheless
they have a place to go.
I look at them and at myself
with a despairing smile,
for as there are so many ways,
no goal can be worthwhile.
The pilgrims of the past, with faces
that glow excitedly,
visit a lot of ancient places
that shaped the destiny
of their big heroes; they don't get tired
of going where poets are laid,
where famous artists were inspired
or history was made.
The streets of Sligo from which Bram Stoker
conceived his Dracula
have gone; today the fearsome croaker
wouldn't think of a count that bizarre.
The Star Club in Hamburg, widely known,
where the Beatles made it big,
is replaced by a posh memorial stone
where no one plays a gig.
I'd watch the sun who once has smiled
on Helen of Troy's golden hair,
the moon who inspirited Oscar Wilde
at the foot of the marble stair,
the stars whose rays long time ago
on Beethoven did fall,
and, watching them, I'm glad to know
they haven't changed at all.
He checked all rooms, and when he
was sure they were alone,
he slammed his pregnant girlfriend
against a wall of stone.
He held her down and kicked her
with a malicious gloat,
he grabbed a handy breadknife,
and twice he cut her throat.
I came back to the hostel,
entered the room and found
him kneeling on her stomach,
punching her head around.
At once the vicious monster
who tried to kill his mate
behaved like a frightened schoolboy
who's caught staying out late.
After a while the woman
regained her consciousness;
we called the Gards, he vanished -
they got him nonetheless.
But they did not detain him
until his case was due,
and so he kept on stalking
the girl he nearly slew,
Threatened to kill her daughter
and begged her to forgive
and told her she'd be sorry
as long as she would live.
I met her in the courtroom,
still black and blue her skin;
the trial was adjourned, but
this time they kept him in.
As he was staring at her
with fabricated tears,
they told us he'd be facing
a sentence of some years.
For eight months he'd assailed his
girl on a monthly term:
she claimed she's had enough now,
and this time she'd stay firm.
There's no more need to worry,
she said and tried to smile,
as he'll be locked away now
for quite a little while.
She got him out of prison,
she told me yesterday;
she really must be praying
for the day she'll pass away.
They say he'll never make me happy,
and I should leave again;
I didn't marry to be happy,
I married to complain.
'How do you cope with a man like him
who has no love to show
and treats you like you aren't there?
- That's if you're lucky, though.
'How can you live with one who argues
with you on St Valentine's?'
Remarks like that, believe you me,
go down like Ballantine's.
Their pity makes my life worthwhile,
although they'll never guess:
the sympathy they show for me,
that is my happiness!
The flowered ruins that have been
each morning's welcome to my room
are being now destroyed; I've seen
the stonework garden's final bloom.
The ghosts of those who laughed and wept
and kissed and died must disappear
with all dark secrets that have slept
within these walls for many a year.
No life was ever meant to last,
and they knock down in callous rage
the daunting spirits of the past
with blossoms of the present age.
I know, I know I cannot stay,
though home this place will always be.
Alas! I have to leave today,
and Union Place must go with me!
I haven't always been a virgin,
no matter what the others say:
I've been a goat as well, and searching
for liberty I lost my way.
And though the others spread those rumours:
I haven't always been this young,
for I have suffered global tumours,
and in my mouth I felt Death's tongue.
I haven't always been a minor
with naught to say and naught to touch:
I've always been my fate's designer
and delegated far too much!
Divided according to colour and size,
the violets rest in rectangular beds,
the neatly trimmed brier won many a prize,
beside the straight path marigolds lift their heads,
the rose bushes grow in an accurate line
where no butterfly ever sojourned,
the hedge shows that garden and flowers are mine:
we need to see Beauty interned!
Flamingoes pace up and pace down with clipped wings,
the stupefied tiger won't move in his cell,
the nightingale, chained to the perch, never sings,
the tortoise retracts in its leathery shell,
the gibbon hangs down from a bar on one leg,
then grabs all the nuts he has earned
and longs for the days he did not have to beg:
we need to see Beauty interned!
We silence their laughter and sneer at their grace,
we're holding their hands and we never let go,
we show them their limits, constricting their space:
Do this, Don't do that and Don't talk till you grow!
We're forcing our children who yearn to be free
to study the things we have learned
and become what we always desired to be:
we need to see Beauty interned!
In frozen dreams of icebergs in the sea
and arctic winds that rock our boat,
I feel and smell the cold intensity
of crystals from the crunching float.
In happiness the heavens are disguised
and swallow every silent cry,
the clouds stand still as if they're paralysed
like cotton statues in the sky.
We have the Goddess of the North aboard,
and from her chains there's no release:
despair is the adventurer's reward,
and death the crown of Beauty's peace.
I greet the vernal spirits who have found me
as trains of people go to Mass,
I'm one with furze and linden trees around me
and chicks who frolic in the grass.
With broom to stick between my lover's tresses,
with church bells to ring in the start
of Nature's year, with verdure's brisk caresses
I plant a spring within my heart.
All images of pulchritude dismissing
that I had known, I watched their art:
they faced each other as though they were kissing,
and with their necks they shaped a heart.
Whene'er my heart endarkens in December,
my fancy once again will take
me to the calmest dream I can remember:
two swans upon a peaceful lake.
The crow who mends her nest with every rose
she seizes in the dead of night
croaks at my window; as the west wind blows,
she takes me for a mystic flight.
Abandoned by the sorceress who stole
the innocence of many a man,
I now, like dying embers midst the coal,
must perish or catch fire again.
A roof above me, I await the morrow,
have clothes and food - I have a happy lot,
but pensively I hang my head in sorrow,
aware that there are billions who have not;
A malady affecting fools and sages,
and through my angst my pleasures must decline:
I've perished with the world for many ages,
I've tried to bear a weight that is not mine.
I should embrace my fate, be glad and merry,
just like the others turn my heart to stone
in Lethe, but like Atlas I must carry
the burden of my weltschmerz all alone.
The suff'rings of this planet are too many,
too heavy for a single man to bear:
I wish like those around me, blind and canny,
I could refuse to carry and to care.
Though men have changed, mankind has never altered
and swells my burden while I'm on the road.
The shoulders of my heart are weak; I faltered,
and once again I lift my heavy load.
A virus may sit on a blood cell.
It may be aware of its identity;
it may be able to spread to the neighbouring cells;
it may be conscious of the damage it is doing,
and even conscious of the fact it’s doing it
to a much larger living organism;
but never, never will it be able to picture
this organism and the suffering it causes it.
Now man may sit on a planet...
Democracy seemed like a good idea,
but people only think what they are taught
by demagogues - Democracy has brought
atrocities no Stephen King comes near.
The tyrant builds his empire upon fear:
after he killed the enemies he fought,
he kills the enemies within; the thought
of opposition merely makes him sneer.
Unlike the tyrants and the presidents,
not thirst for pow’r puts monarchs in command
but ancestry; yet most of them employ
the policy to conquer and destroy
at will. Not necessarily, though, and
one in a thousand may be good, perchance.
They tell you that to make an omelette
you have to break some eggs,
but there is more to making omelettes
than simply breaking eggs.
The world is full of broken eggs,
and yet in Life’s canteen
where we’re fed up by many a cook
no omelette can be seen.
Let’s sack these chefs of humankind
and live on fruit and trout:
we’ve had no omelette to this day,
and we’ll be grand without!
Since man exists, all children play together,
but, prompted by their greedy wives, their dads
would covet their own brothers’ land and cattle
and mercilessly club each other’s heads.
The clans that thus emerged attacked their neighbours
and took control of everything they had,
creating tribes which, constantly expanding,
would rather count their loot than count their dead.
In ever larger units they were striving
to conquer other countries, war by war,
and soon the warriors didn’t know the faces
of those they killed in battle any more.
The chiefs that won and came to rule a county
soon foddered those with a more ambitious mind
who forced them into nations, states and empires
where their prestige and influence declined.
And when the world was just a handful of empires,
it was decided to reset the score -
each risked it all to fight for world dominion
in one (what pleonasm!) bestial war.
After that war most empires fell asunder,
the two remaining ones now cleared the field;
all nations, with the mask of independence
crudely shoved on their faces, had to yield.
Too scared, those empires wouldn’t fight each other
directly, but they both would claim their share,
destroy all lands opposed to being exploited
and plant their little Hitlers everywhere.
They tried to starve each other, they were slaying
each other’s satraps in the light of day
until the Russian Bear died of exhaustion
and left his empire to the bird of prey.
Left without equal foes, the last survivor
and victor kills the butterflies he finds;
he squashes ants to demonstrate his power
and keep his deadly talons on our minds.
Now the American Eagle rules this planet
apart from where the Sleeping Dragon lies;
he only fears his enemies may dwindle
or that one day the Dragon may arise.
What Man has striven for since his creation
is now complete, his quest is near its end:
the ultimate supremacy of one ruler,
the world’s command and power in one hand!
One world, one empire! One führer for all nations,
one leader to decide our destiny -
but History is written by the winner,
and he proclaims his chains have made us free!
What next? Either the Dragon will surrender
or lose a battle for world dominance.
Man has achieved his goal; without a challenge
his empire’s bound to end in decadence.
And when that happens, every little chieftain
will see his chance to conquer and get crowned;
assured that this time things will work out better,
mankind will settle for another round.
On the sunset of Civilisation
they were watching the fall of the dome
where they prayed to the god of their nation
on the morning when Terror came home.
Once the uniforms killed one another
with a gun or a sword or a knife:
the Americans chose not to bother
and bomb cities, erasing all life.
Those who call for revenge slaughter millions
while they censor those telling the truth,
test new weapons on blameless civilians
and loot drugs to get rid of their youth.
Those who love to destroy any culture
they do not understand choose their prey,
pick the meat from the dead like a vulture
and enforce the American way.
Any race that won't follow their orders
is subject to genocide,
and the tyrants securing the borders
of their colonies don't have to hide.
Now the victims of horror and slaying
serve as bait in the massacadrome,
and the innocent crowd will be paying
for the morning when Terror came home.
Boom, boom! The Bushmen beat their drums
and rattle every skull and bone
they made in former feuds: here comes
the tribe that won't be overthrown!
'Somebody has attacked and killed
our people in a savage way:
the vow of vengeance be fulfilled,
somebody soon will have to pay!'
Firm justice would their chief prescribe,
and if they can't get hold of him,
the Bushmen shall erase his tribe
and tear his neighbours limb from limb!
Boom, boom! The Bushmen throw their bombs
on children, men and women; furled
in sycophancy, their pogroms
are being hailed by the Civilized World!
Best recited to the monotonous beat of a single tom-tom, in a low and threatening voice: slow at the beginning, getting faster towards the end of each stanza. The last line, as it speeds up, to be read with ironic enthusiasm.
In this planet’s control centre flourish
those who’ll usher us into a dreary
and dark future, and keenly they nourish
the bald eagle who rules his White Eyrie.
But this bird is a bloodthirsty vampire,
and Humanity’s mightiest scorner
now ensures the American empire
soon will cover the world’s furthest corner.
And whenever his foes are defeated
it’s surprising how promptly he’ll stumble
across used-to-be friends he has cheated -
else his wealthiest industry’d crumble!
So he’d tell an old satrap: ‘You’re rising
up against me while try’ng to distract me,
and there’s no need of proof ere chastising
any nation that may have attacked me!’
With that blank-but-determined expression
home on Anglo-American faces
he gives order to start the aggression -
he stays home, but his army goes places!
He proclaims that each war as it happens
is inclined to be Liberty’s sprinter,
making sure the producers of weapons
in his country get safe through the winter.
I'd love to live in a civilised country
which doesn't enslave its male citizens in an army,
which doesn't 'defend' itself outside its borders,
which doesn't discriminate, not even against men,
which doesn't place their government's interests over the lives of civilians,
which doesn't allow its mothers to kill their children,
which doesn't dispose of its residents, however beastly their crimes:
a country in which man comes first.
But this is not the time for civilisation.
Nor the place.
Nor the planet.
The present's the conclusion
of things that we have done,
the past is an illusion
eight minutes from the sun.
The future is a crater
whose depths we cannot shun,
while History's a traitor
eight minutes from the sun.
We take or miss our chances
as Truth is on the run,
and still we trust our senses
eight minutes from the sun.
One thing leads to another, and
we cannot change the plot;
some of the things that we have planned
work out while some do not.
We may lie back, awaiting Fate,
or follow an idea;
it's not too early nor too late
for all things that appear.
Whatever comes, it's good to know
I have to seize the day,
to know, wherever I may go:
there's been no other way!
Not every man is home where he was born.
Some do not mind, and some set out in quest
of their own country with a compass made
of finest gold to point the way. Their reason
is wrapped in silver lining for the way
that brings them to their lives. In olden days
they had a horse as well, at least a mule,
but now they hitch from place to place to find
their native land. They steal the things they need
from those who will not miss them, and at night
they light the fires of passion in the country.
The local girls then dance around the campsite,
take off their clothes and run into the woods.
Chased by the bold adventurers, they lure
them into bogs and moors from where they can't
escape and meet their doom; they're slowly sinking
before the eyes of those they love. They do
not try to save themselves; the smile of those
who brought them there is all they ever asked for,
and so they perish with the certain knowledge:
I am home!
When you are defeated by someone you flout
at, be jealous and curse him, but smile -
for sooner or later he’s bound to find out
that most of us have to lose once in a while.
If you fail, try again, and thereafter once more,
for no man has been born to ride pillions:
remember that you have succeeded before,
for once you have won a race against billions!
Often, in town and in the park,
in restaurants, in pubs and cafés,
we hear a baby's joyful crow
that means: It's great to be alive!
Not worrying about the future,
not knowing any petty problems,
bursting with life, the little baby
has every reason to rejoice.
And so the adults try to hush them:
Don't be a nuisance! Stop that noise!
Be quiet now, and don't annoy
the others with your happiness.
A lot of struggle and of strife
have brought you where you are today;
your kids deserve a better life
than you have had, that's what you say.
You want them to get As and Bs,
lined up like trophies on a shelf,
and all the opportunities
that you have never had yourself.
Their future starts right in the pram,
that's the unquestionable truth,
so if you want what's best for them,
give them a childhood and a youth!
When home is like a Latin test,
your mind is always strung,
and little buzzing imps infest
your bowels with their young.
When home is like a Latin test,
your folks will stay at bay:
their looks are narrowing your chest,
the things they do not say.
When home is like a Latin test,
you'll ask (and ask again)
for their applause - a painful quest,
and just as well in vain.
Instead of giving your very best,
you should desert their hells:
if home is like a Latin test,
your place is somewhere else.
'The world's a very nasty place and rife
with crime; you'd hate it anyhow,
you'd look around, despair and take your life -
and that is why we kill you now!
'Why should we share the little that we've got,
why should we waste our time at all?
Without a child we'll have a happier lot;
it's best to kill them when they're small!'
'I've planned you with my ex, but then somehow
I dumped him for another man:
I'll have a child with his successor now
if I don't change my mind again.
'We couldn't love our daughter or our son,
for we have better things to do,
and as you shan't be loved by anyone,
we're going to get rid of you!
'After so many battles, wars and fights
of women's lib, irate and wild,
we must enforce the basic women's rights,
and it's my right to kill my child!'
'You're in the way - there's many a thing I'd miss,
and that's why you won't see the morn';
most people wouldn't phrase it quite like this.
(Some parents do before you're born.)
I was sixteen when I was leaving school
and wanted to become a playgroup leader;
my parents' plans with me were more ambitious,
and so I studied, but I didn't finish,
and then I studied something else and failed.
An unskilled job, a year on social welfare,
and finally I pulled myself together:
at twice sixteen I was a playgroup leader.
I was sixteen, aspiring to be a writer,
and started novels, stories and the like;
my parents smiled and said it was all right
as long as I would not neglect my studies
in favour of my hobby - so I wrote,
wrote something else and something else again,
and never got a story finished. Then,
at twice sixteen, I pulled myself together,
and I became the poet that I am.
You may be able to delay their future,
you even may be able to enforce
their apathetic service for a lifetime,
but you will never manage to transfigure
your kids' identity with your ideas.
If ever I have children of my own,
and they decide that they'd become designers,
rock stars or presidents or astronauts,
I know for sure that I'll encourage them.
The laws of Nature never change:
it's nothing new at all
that what a man's addicted to
a woman can control.
So man abides by woman's rule
and will not grunt or groan,
for every time he disobeys
he has to sleep alone.
The man who has a poor libido
will stand up for his right
while those who have a stronger urge
avoid the smallest fight.
Domestic despots may agree
we're cowards or we're nuts,
but we have got the better deal:
here's to us henpecked studs!
We're sorry we've been too busy working,
inventing, designing, producing, promoting,
selling or repairing dish washers, washing machines,
tumble and hair dryers, microwaves and disposable nappies
in order to assuage your terrible lot,
We're sorry we've been too busy creating
the fashions that find your approval,
the kissproof lipstick and the tearproof mascara,
the one-night dye and the reddest nail polish,
We're sorry we've been too busy with our careers,
trying to catch up with your material needs,
bullying each other on the way to the top
in professions that we detest and despise
but that we perform until our dying year,
We're sorry we've been too busy writing,
staging and broadcasting the soaps you like
to keep you entertained from dawn till sunset,
We're sorry we've been too busy mowing the lawn,
digging the weeds and fixing the car,
mending the pipes and laying the carpet,
painting the walls and carrying home your shopping,
We're sorry we've been too busy killing and dying
in the wars of the nations, attempting to secure
and to enhance the lifestyle you're used to,
We're sorry we've been too busy making the money you spend
to take part in your struggle against male domination.
Why can't a man look after children
in Ireland or in Austria?
Because he mightn't be aware of
what the important values are.
A man might fail to teach the boys
to fight, explore and to create,
he might not teach the little girls
to dress their dolls up for a date.
A woman only can make sure
the kids won't doubt the laws of yore
and learn that man is the provider
and woman is provided for.
Broken bottles on a tombstone,
crisp bags strewn over the graves
are convincing indicators
that we're not Tradition's slaves.
Children dying of starvation,
parents struggling to the last,
clans wiped out by epidemics
are mere spirits of the past.
Now there's no more thirst or hunger
as we see by those displays:
broken bottles on a tombstone
state we live in better days.
We stood on the street and debated
the game of the previous night
and the state of the world, and we huddled
together beneath the dim light.
I clenched my frozen fingers
around my chilly glass,
and as it started raining
we watched the taxis pass.
I finished my pipe and entered
the empty pub to get
another pint while Patrick
lit his last cigarette,
Sean bought some cans before he
went homewards, and I told
the unbelieving youngsters
about them days of old
when pubs had been the centre
of a social life that died,
how they were packed with people
and one could smoke inside.
The Ogre is at peace with us.
For dozens of generations
he tortured us and ate our children,
destroyed our harvests and stole our cattle;
he burnt our homes and slaughtered our kin,
enslaved us and forced us to fight in his wars.
But finally we managed to defeat him:
we live in peace with the Ogre.
The Ogre is trading with us.
After all those years that we've been on our own,
trying to build a new home on the ruins he left us,
trying to cultivate the charred fields,
we rose like a phoenix from the ashes, and now
we're doing business with the Ogre.
The Ogre protects us.
As long as he lets us live in his shadow,
no one will dare to provoke or attack us:
we're safe in the shelter of our friend.
So should we not repay his kindness
today, get armed and help him in
his everlasting struggle against children?
We're ready to join forces with the Ogre!
I had a dream which was not all a dream.
-GEORGE BYRON
Two friends of mine got married; on their wedding
there was a band that played some merry tunes,
and people standing at the bar would listen
or talk to others. All around the house
the walls were decorated and the doors,
and everybody had a swinging time.
Then, later in the afternoon, some strangers
appeared and joined the party; no one knew them,
and no one wanted to. They all were dressed
in ragged sleeveless shirts and army trousers;
around their waist they wore a leather belt,
and in that belt a gun. They stood and drank,
their elbows on the counter; they were laughing
and watching others. Every now and then
they'd draw their guns and shoot one of the guests;
the few ones who complained were shot as well,
and soon the house was silent. While I stood
and drank my cocktail, I was anxious, hoping
they wouldn't notice me - I looked away
whene'er someone was killed. They did not seem
to pay attention to me, and the phone
was right beside me, so I picked it up
and dialled the number of the local police.
I told them everything that I had seen,
afraid in case they might be watching me -
but no one did, and several minutes later
the police arrived. They went up to the counter
and ordered drinks, and every now and then
they'd draw their guns and shoot one of the guests;
the few ones who complained were shot as well,
and soon the house was silent. Still the men
ignored my presence as it seemed, but when
I quietly tried to sneak out of the building,
their leader put his arm around me with
a friendly smile and offered me a drink.
We chatted and we laughed; I complimented
them on their aim, and after many hours
of tense companionship I slowly started
to feel quite safe, for I was sure they had
not been aware that it was I who called
the police earlier on. I once again
tried to sneak out while no one watched;
I lost my balance when I felt the cold
steel at my temple, tripped, and as I fell
he pulled the trigger.
The eagle killed a pigeon
and picked it to the bone,
and as they were still callow,
the nestlings hadn't flown;
so after he had dinner
he killed the squabs as well,
then grabbed them with his talons
and rose above the dell.
But when he reached his eyrie,
a horrid sight was shown:
someone had killed the eaglets
and picked them to the bone!
'Who did that?', he was fuming;
the magpie slyly said:
'I think I saw the sparrow
pass by as if he fled.'
The raging eagle summoned
the birds both great and small
and told them: 'What has happened
is a disgrace to all
who want to live in freedom;
therefore we must declare
war on the vicious sparrow
and all his mates out there!'
The others cheered the eagle
and honed their claws and beaks,
and you could see the falcons
patrolling mountain peaks,
the keen woodpecker drumming
to raise the battle heat
and nightingales amarching
to the rhythm of the beat.
The songs ceased in the forest,
drums beat for years on end,
and from each twig and offshoot
there hung a feathered friend,
the heavens were deserted,
the meadows stained with gore,
the roofs turned into mass graves
when the birdies went to war!
The dove opposed conscription
with the two-letter word:
he'd never raise his pecker
against a fellowbird.
He called for peace and prudence;
before he could draw breath,
the eagle had passed sentence,
and he was put to death.
Who had a score to settle
declared his enemy
an ally of the sparrow
and joined the killing spree;
the spoonbill had no weapon
to call his own and was
the first one done away with
under the crowd's applause.
The songs ceased in the forest,
drums beat for years on end,
and from each twig and offshoot
there hung a feathered friend,
the heavens were deserted,
the meadows stained with gore,
the roofs turned into mass graves
when the birdies went to war!
The sparrows were too scared of
the mighty birds of prey,
and so they'd kill their offspring
and smash the eggs they'd lay,
the magpies cruelly listened
to their victims' final cheep,
and chicks in arms dismembered
their playmates in their sleep.
The starling stabbed the blackbird,
the heron drove his bill
right through the noisy ducklings
when on a distant hill
the sparrows' nests were spotted
as the sun rose in the east,
and only minutes later
the vultures had a feast.
The songs ceased in the forest,
drums beat for years on end,
and from each twig and offshoot
there hung a feathered friend,
the heavens were deserted,
the meadows stained with gore,
the roofs turned into mass graves
when the birdies went to war!
When the last sparrow perished,
the few survivors hailed
their leader who concluded
that justice had prevailed.
'We finished off the sparrow,',
he said; 'God heard our pleas,
and every bird is safe now
from his atrocities.
'And yet we must continue
our struggle and our strife,
for still the other finches
try to control our life
and take away our freedom;
we'll make them understand
that we will not surrender
but fight until the end!'
The songs ceased in the forest,
drums beat for years on end,
and from each twig and offshoot
there hung a feathered friend,
the heavens were deserted,
the meadows stained with gore,
the roofs turned into mass graves
when the birdies went to war!
Framed by gorsed fields and evergreen
coppices thriving in the cool,
there lies a prehistoric scene:
the stony shore of Lough Nasool,
the lake that every hundred years
mysteriously disappears.
Between the hillocks you will find,
too grand to be interned by words,
another world to seize your mind,
teeming with copious fearless birds:
swallows swoop down before your eyes
and larks shoot up into the skies.
Hoof prints of generations show
this is a place of Life; a lot
of those who visit do not know
that there are times when it is not,
when you can see the lake’s demise
in a deserted paradise.
Here Balor of the Evil Eye
was slain, the God of Death; this ground
absorbed the poison of his eye
that dries out everything around
centurially, so we’d recall
that Death is living after all.
But in the Year of the Quiet Sun,
three score ten years before its time,
in one large cloud the lake was gone
and sought a Continental clime
to christen a poet across the sea
and call him to his destiny.
There is a wood on Knocknarea below the lofty grave
of someone who (as people say) will come again: Queen Maeve.
Each votary who climbs the hill puts on her mound a stone,
and when the number's full, she will rise to reclaim her throne.
And in the thicket of that wood where no man dares to stroll
(and, let me tell you, no man should), there, in a hidden hole
a dragon lives beneath a yew, begotten by her spell,
who has been seen by very few, and fewer live to tell.
He guards the cairn with watchful eyes; if anyone comes near,
he lifts his head and slyly spies on those who have no fear,
and if they bring a stone and bow before the Queen of Man,
he will unraise his scaly brow, lie down and sleep again.
But someone who disturbs the peace of her reposing bones
by climbing up the mound he sees or by removing stones
kindles the frenzy of the brute; at once the dragon will
take a deep breath and blow the crude intruder down the hill!
And on the open plateau he'll be pierced by stones of hail,
and, fleeing towards the wood, he'll feel the dragon's mighty tail
smashing his skull against the boles of ancient trees; a sharp
pain is endured by him who rolls down the precipitous scarp!
And if the beast should get irate, there's no one he would spare -
he will arise and desolate the land around his lair,
he'll whip the bay round Knocknarea to make its waters swell;
the two-faced ocean will obey by drowning beach and dell.
Many a man has paid the price for braving pow'rs of yore,
but those of us who met him twice will still come back for more!
Right at the foot of Knocknarea
the ramblers hesitate:
hidden amongst the thicket stands
a rusty iron gate.
It looks like it is leading nowhere,
but there’s a path that will
show you a world outside this world
where Time and Earth stand still.
Thatched by enormous trees that witnessed
the Dawn of Humankind,
the Glen reveals a rugged beauty
that captures eye and mind.
Dwarfed by the soaring walls through which
you glimpse at distant skies,
you feel that in the undergrowth
there are a thousand eyes.
Wading through grass and mud, you quickly
sense with each breath anew
the presence of the Little People
who keep their eyes on you.
Although they hide and will not show
themselves to any man,
you know you’re closely being watched by
the Fairies of the Glen.
And as you leave this magic place,
it whispers in the fern:
‘All those who don’t disturb our peace
are welcome to return!’
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 streamlet that was winding
through a ravine 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 won’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 no 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 adduction,
and their arrows went right through them
like a brooklet through the fen -
at night they would dismantle their construction,
but in the mornings 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 rung 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
pushed landinwards 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.
Poignantly 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.
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.
First to India, then to Lisbon
the Malay is forced to travel,
and Magellan, his new master,
names his polyglot young slave
Enrique after the Prince who had the vision
that one day man would sail around the world.
Through a Moor war in Morocco
and his idle years in Lisbon
Ferdinand Magellan figures
there must be another way
to the Spice Islands where the Muslim pirates
could not be threatening the Christian trade.
From another expedition
he has secret information
of a strait in Patagonia,
leading through America;
his monarch doesn’t show the slightest interest,
so he reveals his plans to the King of Spain.
Many years of preparations
follow and a lot of quarrels;
finally his fleet is leaving
the Sevillian port, led by
the mariner 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 routine of the explorers:
raping, plund’ring, Christianising
and abducting samples for
the Spanish monarch’s human zoo (which rarely
survive the trip but can be fun to have).
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 come to Guam
where they stop briefly, stock 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 fee, and though
Enrique warns him of the consequences,
the King insists on being paid the fee.
Then an Arab 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 on Mactan they’re objected
to becoming slaves and Christians,
so Magellan burns their village
down and fumes as they strike back;
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.
Once upon a time there was
a lady on a ship with flaws,
but as the waters gathered round her,
a stately pirate vessel found her.
The pirates pulled the girl on deck
where mouth-to-mouth she didn’t lack,
and from the time she did recover,
the maid became the first mate’s lover.
The men were getting drunk and gay;
only the first mate stayed away
until, exhausted from the action,
he joined the vessel’s bingeing section.
And here he sang and drank again
with Captain Longarm and his men.
Her head appeared above his porter’s;
he said ‘I’ll bring you to our quarters.’
The woman told him on the spot:
‘Not with a breath like that you’re not’,
smiled at the captain and retired
with the new cabin boy he’d hired.
This instance made the pirates think,
and many now stayed off the drink -
hoping to get a turn, they’d quarrel,
intrigue and even get immoral.
One evening Captain Longarm went
on deck; she’d chosen him to spend
the night with her, leaned at the railing
and asked about the art of sailing.
Instead of sounds of sins of flesh
the shipmates heard a massive splash
and rushed on deck, and here their saviour
soon justified his odd behaviour:
‘This creature caused our jealousy,
discomfort and sobriety,
so with the limb I got my name from
I brought her back to where she came from.’
The pirate crew went back inside
where smokes and whiskey were supplied:
the captain’s cabin shook with laughter,
and they drank heavily ever after.
The fledgling wants to stay in nest
all day, but Mother Bird stays firm:
‘At cockcrow vermin tastes the best -
the early bird catches the worm!’
But as he spreads his wings, he’s hit
by a worm-eaten branch and cries;
the damage renders him unfit
to keep on living, and he dies.
The worms that populate this place
rejoice and gladly spread the word
and leave their holes and crawl a race:
the early worm catches the bird!
The skies are closed for lunch. The sun is in
a conference and cannot be disturbed.
You’ll have to wait. Another drop of gin
for Peter, the receptionist; he burped
several times now, but to quench his thirst
seems quite impossible. Then, after hours,
you ask him for your turn. He tells you first
you must pick a number, and he show’rs
his throat again. You see on the display
that there are hundreds more before you. As
you wait your turn, your thoughts take off and stray
to what you left behind, and to the mess
that was your life... Newcomers constantly
squeeze on the bench beside you: ‘Sorry, Ma’am!’ -
Then, checking the display once more, you see
your number has been up already; damn!
With the Bishop of Galway I walked down the alley;
we came from the fields and were covered in mud,
as a hovering shadow approached from the valley,
half human, half viscous and covered in blood.
My companion grew pale at the sight of this creature,
and I did the same; she uncovered her face,
or what it once was, and, ignoring the preacher,
she entreated me: 'Won't you come home to my place?'
The bishop was gasping for breath and narrated
the story of Scarlet O'Malley who dwelt
in this area decades ago and created
a picture of love as a profligate felt:
she was being considered the ultimate sinner,
and everyone claimed that she was a disgrace
to her village; she haunted the pubs after dinner
and looked for a man to take home to her place.
One evening they found her remains in the Shannon
and brought what was left of her corpse to her house.
Her funeral has been arranged by a canon
who had pity on her; then her furious spouse
was ploughing her grave in a rampaging spell, he
demolished her tombstone and left not a trace,
but Scarlet O'Malley still haunts yonder valley
and looks for a man to bring home to her place.
Once people built their homes with stones they took from
the cairn where legend says Queen Maeve
lies buried with her sword; when they were carried
away somebody robbed the grave.
And on the day that followed storm clouds gathered
heavily over Sligo Bay;
the fearful farmers soon brought in their cattle
and stowed their carts and tools away.
Chief constable McGuire was disappointed:
he knew he caught the highwayman,
but as no loot was found in Murphy’s cottage
he had to let him go again.
That night he stumbled homewards through the tempest,
hoping the fire had been put on
for him already, but on his arrival
he found his wife Edel was gone.
Man will break up; he’ll talk about the reasons
and slam the door right in your face -
woman sneaks out; she’ll leave the back door open
and disappear without a trace.
For days, for months or years she’ll keep you guessing
what happened since you last have met;
forever you will wreck your head, not knowing
whether to worry or forget.
A crowd of peasants woke him after midnight,
entreating him to lose no time;
they said the old McGuires had just been murdered
and brought him to the scene of the crime.
It was the first time that he saw his parents
who always vaunted their success
since they had disinherited their offspring
for marrying a local lass.
He was appalled when looking at their bodies,
cut clean in half from head to crutch,
and he remembered how they used to fawn on
their better half they loved so much.
The witnesses' reports appeared fantastic,
but their accounts were in accord:
the murderess was a tall and handsome lady
on horseback with a golden sword.
He searched for evidence which indicated
who sent his folks to Fiddler’s Green,
but while investigating he was summoned
to yet another murder scene.
Murphy lay cut in half beside the main road,
though armed, he couldn’t save his life;
he wore the hat and mask he’d worn that evening
he stopped McGuire and robbed his wife.
Many a suspect woman was arrested,
interrogated and then sent
to gaol, but just before she hanged, another
murder would prove her innocent.
Although McGuire appointed posts and watchmen,
the homicides continued still:
his wife who had been living with a farmhand
was found in and beside a rill.
The county lived in fear, firmly believing
that darkest forces were unfurled,
and the engrossed chief constable was left now
without an enemy in the world.
One morning he had all his men assembled,
his face was pale, his voice was grave:
‘I found the answer to the Warrior Murders -
I think we’re looking for Queen Maeve!
‘There is a postulate? the chief remembered,
‘that has been taught since ancient Greece:
the soul of one whose body is not covered
by earth can never rest in peace.
‘Who rose her from the grave controls her spirit,
and she will act at his command;
wherever hidden, she will trace his victims -
no one can stop her if we can’t!'
Hundreds of volunteers swarmed out to help them
and combed the hill, the glen, the strand;
they found her stately skeleton in the woodland,
her bloodstained sword clasped in her hand.
Once more the Queen was buried by the peasants
who piled up stones and made the vow
not to disturb her bones upon the mountain,
and there she rests in peace - for now.
’How black is the night?’, she asked him
as the carriage rode into the night.
‘More black than the coal in the furnace
that you saw when you lost your sight.’
’How black is the night?’, she asked him
as he gently escorted her down.
‘More black than the carriage that brought us
to this forest so far from the town.’
’How black is the night?’, she asked him
in a voice trembling more than before.
‘More black than the bog in the forest
holding so many secrets of yore.’
’How black is the night?’, she asked him
as her pupils dilated with fear.
‘As black as the heart of the husband
who paid me to bring you here.’
When spirits are evicted
from their locations,
with tribulations
and worries they’re afflicted.
The ghost then roams the mountains
and haunts the highlands,
the plains and islands,
the holy wells and fountains.
Without a home, he’s screamin’
in woods and valleys,
in yards and alleys,
the shadow of a demon.
But Father Flynn of Baygrant
once met a witty
ghost and took pity
on wraiths displaced and vagrant.
He made their plight his mission
and helter-skelter
provided shelter
for many an apparition.
His kindness and his labours
were soon rewarded;
his spectres hoarded
the chattel of the neighbours.
He granted absolution
and kept the plunder;
his flock felt under
unearthly prosecution.
But those who chafed the parson
incurred the visits
of grisly spirits,
committing theft and arson.
The lavish cleric nourished
God’s sheer creations;
for generations
the Ghost’s Asylum flourished.
Still preaching and forgiving,
he reaps his perks here;
though he still works here,
God knows if he’s still living.
Clenched hearts can not be seen but in the eye
of those who wouldn't hurt a living creature,
those who are dwelling under the illusion
no human soul could be completely evil,
that there is something true in every claim
and every accusation that is made
and that the other ones are always right.
Bullied by classmates, teachers, priests and parents
they grow to be calm pleasers with clenched hearts -
clenched hearts, anxious to strike a fatal blow
but too afraid that they might miss their aim.
They walk the streets like everybody else;
but watch them closer and you'll realise
they're shyly making way for all the others,
and they apologise to anyone who
bumps into them. They patiently await
the prize Life has to offer for the righteous,
but when the cows come home they will discover
they didn't even make it to the shortlist.
That day they will decide to change their life...
He crumpled up his statement. For years on end
he’s lived on just the bare necessities
and put each penny he could spare
into his bank account, providing for
the future; now he has to realise
his waste of time and money - the charges are
considerably higher than
the meagre interests, and the piggy bank
would certainly have left him a richer man.
And his account with Life? He rises from his chair,
restlessly walking up and down.
There were some bonfires and some apple blossoms,
some roses (were there roses?) and the sea,
some smiles and some shy rays of sunshine
that lit dark nights and longer winters...
But are those sweets Existence has to offer
worth all the input and the trouble?
He lingers at the open window and decides
to close his account.
He was a swordfish who lived in the wood -
he couldn't sing or hunt mice
or do anything that the others could,
but with his long snout he could slice
the others' portions; each evening they stood
around him and shared which was nice.
And oft he would talk of this magical place
where he just like all others could be,
and where he'd be moving with ease and with grace
in his element, cheerful and free;
the others would sneer, or they'd tell him to face
the stern reality.
And oft he would stand on the cliffs at the shore,
and he'd watch the wide ocean and pause,
but his sylvan friends would know the score
and hold him back with their claws:
'Don't jump! There's so much worth living for',
but they'd never reveal what it was.
Am I not blessed that I can see
the wealth and beauty of this world?
Am I not blessed that I can walk
through Nature to be one with her?
Am I not blessed that I can write
to share my feelings and my thoughts?
With all these blessings I still muse:
why is it that I feel so cursed?
Though that's what folk think of this country,
there may not be another May
like this again: no bit of sunshine
but lashing rain each single day.
And there's no sign it might be over;
we're halfway through the month of June,
and still it's coming down in buckets
all night, morn, noon and afternoon.
No golden fields will see the harvest,
no bees will swarm out from their hive,
and I'll give up on this year's summer
as I have given up on Life.
Years ago, when Fate installed him,
he came down from Omaha,
and this is what people called him
where he went to, near or far.
Whitney was a model, climbing
to the top on high heeled shoe;
as she's always been two-timing,
they all called her W.
When they met, there was a massive
earthquake, but he had to fall:
Omaha was quite possessive,
which she didn't like at all.
Bentley, Morrison and Peter
had to leave their part-time wife:
they were not allowed to meet her
while her new one was alive.
Whitney found it boring what she
tasted of monogamy,
and one day they found his blotchy
entrails in the lemon tree.
Bentley, Morrison and Peter
dressed up for the funeral;
now her life will be much sweeter,
like a Lerner musical.
With a naughty simper Bentley
combs his hair and shines his shoe,
turns around and mumbles gently:
Ah, a model like W!
Morrison gets up and slowly
combs his hair and shines his shoe,
scrubs his back and mumbles lowly:
Ah, a model like W!
Pete who's always been a stirrer
combs his hair and shines his shoe,
and he whispers to the mirror:
Ah, a model like W!
When God created big and small,
the sun was shining without cease,
and so man had to struggle all
God-given hours their Lord to please.
The Prince of Darkness in sublime
foresight brought Night to man; that's how
they suddenly had lots of time
for pleasures God did not allow.
God, as a man opposed to fun,
counterspelled it, his laws to keep:
after they had their day's work done,
he let his creatures fall asleep.
But his commandments are not ours,
enforcing them he has no right,
and still we steal some happy hours
before we go to sleep at night.
I wish I was a musician
with many a naughty fan,
for it's my sole ambition
to be a happy man.
My audience is list'ning
to the most sensual verse,
but not an eye is glist'ning,
and soon they will disperse.
Byron's eroticism
proved useless just as well:
the poets got the rhythm,
but not the magic spell.
The singer is a rover
with many a girl to please,
and when the show is over
he knows he'll get a squeeze.
They'd shout they want it badly
like enthusiastic elves,
and while they scream, they'd madly
be fingering themselves.
They'd flash their breasts and wiggle
their butts and show their legs;
after the gig they'd giggle
and queue for having sex.
Meanwhile the passionate poet
signs books behind a stall:
'We like your style!' - 'I know it,
but is that really all?
Every morning you are fed,
every day you stage your show,
every night you go to bed
to awake to what you know.
You are sheltered from the breeze
and you have a place to dwell,
you are safe from enemies
and from having friends as well.
You have been corrupted since
you were captured, and your name,
food and nest and jumps and spins
and your song remain the same.
Picking berries in the wild,
sleeping under heaven's blue,
caring for a new-hatched child
is what we're supposed to do.
Thus the bird of freedom sings:
'You're created to be free,
you were born to spread your wings:
leave your cage and follow me!'
One day, footloose and fancy-free,
I leant against an ancient tree
right in the middle of the park
and cut my name into his bark.
His branches closed around me, and
he groaned: ‘Son, you must understand
that I have reason to object
to such displays of disrespect!
‘I was around through Henry’s reign
when terror ruled, and sword, and chain,
when he controlled his subjects’ lives
and killed his critics and his wives;
‘When Indians hunted buffalo
across the plains and didn’t know
that soon enough they’d share their fate
until the time it was too late;
‘When France replaced the tyranny
of its corrupted monarchy
with tyrants of another kind
that left humanity behind.
‘You ought to show respect to me:
I’ve seen more than you’ll ever see!’
And I replied: ‘This may be true,
but you will die before I do.’
Caught in my trap I found a mouse
with fur smooth, soft and brown,
and by the field next to the house
I slowly let it down.
Then I removed the lid to set
the tiny creature free;
she didn't care because she ate
the bait quite eagerly.
I gently tilted the trap; she fell,
but still she'd fight and strive
to hold on to her prison cell
as if it meant her life.
She finished chocolate, nuts and cheese
while nothing else she'd yield,
and then she turned around with ease
and headed for the field.
As long as we are fed, we can't
leave for the better place,
for freedom is what we demand
after we've stuffed our face.
The timbal kept on beating
and stirred the strident brass,
the angels dropped like windfall
when Father Death said Mass.
The clerestory enabled
no ray of light to pass
the dingy little windows
when Father Death said Mass.
He roared we all were evil
and doomed to live in Hell
for being disobedient,
selfish and vain as well.
God is our Lord, he ranted,
His order will prevail:
He made us in His image
and hates to see us fail!
Outside the sun was shining,
and on the rampant grass
the daffodils were blooming
while Father Death said Mass.
Jesus’ father was a Roman
which is not a healthy omen;
look at all that he has done
to eliminate his son.
He staggers over cans and stones beside
the dirty bay, as helpless as a chick
that leaves the nest, but he will leave this world.
His lifeless eyes are focussed on the ground
while carefully he measures his next step
as though he knows that each could be his last.
Once more he spreads his wings in an attempt to
remind the world of bygone days when he
ruled reed and river, but he slips and needs
the wings to stop his fall, and gracelessly
tries to stand up while his unkempt vibrissae
like Santa's long white beard swings in the breeze,
his plumage looks as shabby as a vulture's
poor outfit as he tries to find a grip
for his unsteady claws. I wish that I
could help this creature, but I know I can't
and turn away from him with pensive thoughts;
it's sad to see a heron die.
There's something tells me I must go home,
where the sun smiles up from the bay;
I'm tired of searching, I don't want to roam
in exile until my last day.
There's something tells me I must enjoy
the pleasures Life brings to my door:
the world is a toy for the man who's a boy,
and there's nothing on earth I want more.
There's something tells me I must breathe in
the fragrance the roses all give,
for Life is no duty and joy is no sin:
there's something tells me I live!
Forget not the moments of passion,
the hunger that once has been stilled,
fulfilling your lovers' obsession
to have your obsession fulfilled.
Forget not the moments of pleasure,
the moon and the boardwalk above,
the moments when Time had no measure,
forget not the moments of love.
Forget not the moments of thunder,
the sound of the bellowing seas,
forget not the moments of wonder,
forget not the moments of peace.
Forget not the days of excitement,
the beauty and danger of Troy,
preceding Elation's indictment -
forget not the moments of joy!
And now, in my spirit's December,
I think of those moments of yore,
for all I can do is remember
and hope that there might be some more.
In dreams of my awakening
I hear the mission bell
of Love and Freedom; with its ring
it breaks the torpid spell.
I taste the sun, I smell the rain
after the clouds have passed:
I feel the joy, I feel the pain,
I feel myself at last!
The Bird of Promise starts to sing,
rewarding thus my strife:
in dreams of my awakening
I even get a life!
I watch the Rose of Heaven grow
and bloom for me, but when
I come to life, a voice says No,
and I wake up again.
New starts became a part of me,
and once again I try to see
the future in the brightest shade
in which a future can be made:
a sensual woman by my side,
some kids to be my heart's delight,
and that is it! But many a year
has passed me by, and now I fear
these joys, as common as they be,
were not designed for folk like me.
So my new start which seemed at hand
will soon become another end,
and while my life is put on hold,
my hopes and I are growing old.
We look down on Nature's creation, and this
is what we enquire: What makes man what he is?
Some say we evolved from the apes, using tools,
some say we matured by agreeing on rules,
Some say man is only one part of the whole,
some say that a god gave us spirit and soul,
Some say we are more through the power to think,
some say that to superman we are the link,
Some say we're just carnivores, killing about:
they kill to survive while we kill to wipe out.
On ruins and blood of our brothers we feast:
the will to destroy separates us from beast.
When the banshee's soothing sound
ends my solitary fate,
do not put me in the ground;
not a tombstone nor a plate
mark my distant burial mound.
On the hill of Knocknarae,
on the plateau let me rest;
pen in hand, far from the way,
standing upright, facing west,
let me overlook the bay.
In no ritual bemoan
my demise once I take wing;
as in life, I'll stand alone,
but let those remembering
put upon my cairn a stone.
King Minos drove his cart 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 couldn't help but staring at the
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, Pasiphae
flaunted her flawless sylphlike body
and raised her dress for all to see.
'Talking of which', the King imparted,
his solemn mien all sorrowful,
'with men she neither can be bothered,
because she loves my strongest bull.
'Since months she's trying to seduce him
though he won't even look at her,
and still her deviant intention
she is not willing to defer.
'Pasiphae 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 ebon 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 carcase
in which the Queen abode her treat.
And when she learned 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 Pasiphae decided
to breast-feed it when it was born;
one breast she fed it on its 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 cease to work 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 Pasiphae decided
to pay a visit to her child.
And from that day the Queen went 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',
the youngster said. '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 at his chest.
Then, on the night before their hanging,
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:
upon their arms they dropped the 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 Helos:
make sure you stay out of the sun!'
They flew all night. The sun was rising,
the lad forgot the augury;
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 a 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 his 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.
No man nor beast dared to approach his castle
which lay in darkness night and day,
but everybody knew the tales and rumours
about the horrors on his hill.
They say he trained his wolves to feed on
children,
he trained his bats to drain the blood
from human beings, that he had a dragon
who lived on cattle and on men.
At times the brute would rise; the earth would
tremble,
and fire from his mouth would burn
the fields and houses, and his breath of iron
would blow the crops and woods away.
Dwarf Killgun was his dubious loyal servant,
saddling his horse, honing his axe:
he would have liked to kill his vicious master
but was afraid in case he’d fail.
At new moon, shrouded in the coat of Darkness,
the Prince collected secretly
the creatures for his cabinet of horrors,
eager to find the source of Life.
At midnight you would find him in the churchyard
- only that no one looked for him -;
he took the dead ones from their resting places
and buried those who were alive.
His dungeon was the final stop for debtors,
for enemies and passers-by,
where he approached the answer to the question
what organs man can live without.
Only the abbey where the saints awaited
what has been promised from the dawn
of Time, Lord Ghni’s victorious arrival,
was safe because he feared their god.
One day the Prince rode out into the mountains,
his fretful servant by his side,
and on their way they passed the dusky castle
of Earl Druyhaggly and his sons.
He was supposed to be a black magician,
for no one knew his real age:
great grandads told the younger generations
that he was old when they were born.
‘He read the books I’ve read but has no wisdom',
the Prince remarked disdainfully. -
‘Are you not jealous of the way he managed
to cling to life, my script-mad Prince?'
‘No! Jealousy is fear of competition,
and Earl Druyhaggly can’t compete
with me', he said. ‘He tries to be a monster,
but all Black Masters laugh at him.'
‘Find out the times he lived - he is a demon',
Dwarf Killgun uttered anxiously.
‘Outside - then, if he’s a demon, I’m the Devil!',
Prince Ledvi answered with a sneer.
‘He followed me the day I picked the black rose,
the secret to prolong one’s life
for up to thirteen years, and with this knowledge
he managed to survive that long.
‘And now I feel my strength again is fading,
and I must look for her at once -
I have to find the rose before the Earl does:
she’s rare here, for she needs the sun.'
Black clouds that rose up from the dale enshrouded
the murky hills of Trichistan
as they set out to find the vital flower
on Earl Druyhaggly’s mountain range.
And as they sneaked across the hostile churchyard
to take the shortcut through the woods,
a crow emerged and led them to her hideout
behind the chapel on the knoll.
Dwarf Killgun warned the Prince: ‘Why do we follow
a crow, the messenger of death?'
But like in trance his master sauntered onwards
until the bird had reached her nest.
And suddenly some hideous apparitions
ascended from derelict graves,
decaying corpses in the eerie moonlight,
and slowly hobbled towards the Prince.
‘You’ll die tonight, much slower and more painful
than any of your victims did,
and on the glorious day of Ghni’s arrival
you’ll pay for all our sufferings!'
The fearful Prince produced a graven image
of Lord Adonikam to keep
the ghostly mob at bay, and with his servant
he turned around and said no word.
In timid silence they went on and, climbing
the steepest rock face, they could see
the black rose blooming on the highest mountain
where not a chamois dared to go.
The servant was the first to reach the summit
and stretched his hand out, but the Prince
admonished him: ‘She just bestows her magic
on him who picks the rose himself!'
Dwarf Killgun watched him as he tried to grab her,
nine hundred yards above the ground;
he didn’t push him neither did he help him
until the Prince plunged down the cliff.
Now Earl Druyhaggly ruled the twilight country,
and the black heavens soon turned grey,
the yoke of death became the yoke of sorrows;
the horror ceased, the fear remained.
For many years the farmers' life continued
without the monarch of their woes
save oral lore, for in their rustic spirits
the Prince of Darkness stayed alive.
Whatever happened in the gloomy valley,
the village people always blamed
Prince Ledvi of the Santa Cruifel Valley
at Bluezebbe Lake near Trichistan.
One frosty winter evening a tornado
announced the advent of a fiend,
and, being darker than the night around him,
a man stood in the city gate.
The veil of Evil and the gloom of Molog
fell o’er the vales of many a slave,
the mood of Doom filled the Resort of Terrors:
the Demon gnomed, the Devil lived!
‘After my fall I had a revelation
that I shall be the emperor
of every other country, every kingdom
in every corner of the world.
‘All nations on this earth my hand shall conquer
and rule them with an iron rod:
their kings shall praise and fear the King of
monarchs,
known by the name of Xoanon Rex!'
He sent for King Demirva of Alassys
whose realm lay next to Trichistan
and asked the fickle ruler to join forces
against his enemy of old.
‘Deep in the Rorie Wood there is a building
he calls his little Iron Core,
and all the shields and weapons for his soldiers
are manufactured in that forge.
‘He doesn’t know I know of it, and therefore
he doesn’t guard the place too well;
there we shall start the battle, kill the
blacksmiths,
destroy the forge and take their swords!
‘While Earl Druyhaggly will await our armies
right at his country’s borderline,
we’ll sneak across the thickets of his forest
and then attack them from behind!'
So they agreed to meet before the sunrise
after the solstice in the woods,
and King Demirva left the dusky castle
like he had been attacked himself.
‘Why did you talk about the plan to enter
the province at the Rorie Wood
to set the little Iron Core on fire?',
Dwarf Killgun wondered with a frown.
‘He won’t believe a word I say, and therefore
I took the opportunity
to tell the truth in order to conceal it',
Prince Ledvi answered with a sneer.
As he expected, all the troops had mustered
right at the foot of the mountain range
which separates the Santa Cruifel Valley
from the highland realm of Trichistan.
Meanwhile Prince Ledvi’s undefeated army
had sneaked into the Rorie Wood
and, covered by the bracing fog of morning,
they secretly besieged the forge.
And then the soldiers lit and hurled their torches
and with their arrows killed the posts;
within a minute everything was over,
the blacksmiths dead, the forge burnt down.
From there the troops approached the nation’s
border,
hidden behind the many trees;
it was less than a chain that separated
the army from their enemy.
And as the signal sounded, they attacked them:
before the foe could turn around,
Prince Ledvi’s soldiers threw their spears, their
halberds
and battle-axes in their back.
Their helpless victims put up no resistance
as they were taken by surprise,
but still the Sable Army slew the soldiers
until no man was left alive.
The battle chief arrested Earl Druyhaggly
and King Demirva in the fort,
put them in chains, then marched them through the
city
and made them kneel before the Prince.
Their vanquisher looked at his former rivals
contemptuously and drew his sword,
decapitated them and gave the order
to have their heads exposed on poles.
‘This is but the beginning', claimed Prince Ledvi,
‘for soon the name of Xoanan Rex
will make the nations on this planet tremble
with fear of him who rules the world!
‘Our people has been made to reign and govern
all other races on this earth,
and Xoanan Rex, your god-appointed leader,
will conquer all the world with you!
‘But for this purpose we require an army
much bigger than the one we have,
so all of you have to pick up a weapon
and struggle for our native right!'
Prince Ledvi had all citizens conscripted
to fight against their fellowmen,
and armed with pitchforks, shovels, spades and
sickles
the peaceful farmers faced the war.
And all his subjects carried on their forehead
or their right hand the royal mark,
the King’s initials, and like branded cattle
endured his arbitrariness.
Prince Ledvi called a war upon the nations
who did not willingly submit;
the saints came down to pray and bless the
weapons,
and everybody hailed their king.
His pastime soldiers spread in all directions
and butchered, looted, raped and burned
what they could find, and where the foe was
stronger
the Sable Army came to help.
Soon every other country was defeated
and the known world was in his hands,
but still the raids and massacres continued:
Terror became the way of life.
But some put up resistance ’gainst the warfare
and tyranny of Xoanan Rex;
a group of dauntless rebels had beleaguered
and seized the fort of Trichistan.
Whoever sought to enter without weapons
or left them with the post in charge
was welcomed to the fellowship of humans
amidst a world of savage beasts.
Some undercover agitators ventured
to join them, trying to incite
the people to rebel against the rebels
who thought they could withstand the Prince.
But they were sneered at every time they
questioned
their zealous hosts' sincerity;
some stopped complaining, and they chose to stay
there,
while their companions were expelled.
The Sable Army was brought in; unable
to get anywhere near the fort,
Prince Ledvi’s force besieged the rebels' stronghold,
and no one could get in or out.
Thirst and starvation soon set in; the rebels
rationed the water and the food,
but to make sure the fort could be defended
they claimed the bigger share themselves.
Some families decided to surrender,
hoisted the white flag and left the fort:
the soldiers let them pass without disturbance
and watched them as they left the scene.
A task force had to follow them in secret,
and when the fort was out of sight,
they massacred the children, men and women
before they were aware of them.
And after many weeks Prince Ledvi’s army
hauled an impressive catapult
up to the palisades from where Batgado,
his battle chief, addressed the crowd:
‘We do not fight against you', he assured them,
‘we know you’re victims of a group
of marauding outlaws, bandits who deceived you
into opposing law and order!
‘Your leaders are ambassadors of Evil:
there’s food for all, but they let you starve,
and while you’re at your post and do your duty,
they rape your daughters and your wives.
‘We hate to see you suffer, and we’ll help you!' -
The sceptic crowd still stayed at bay.
Loaded with clothes, with food and bottled water
the catapult was being fired.
There was some dispute whether or not to trust
those
who thought that poor wights were not worthwhile;
when finally the hungry crowd approached them,
the soldiers launched the burning coal.
The fort caught fire at once, and the survivors
who managed to escape the flames
were killed outside its walls by furious soldiers
who left no adult nor child alive.
The public cheered their army, and St Noelan,
the abbot, celebrated Mass
to thank Lord Ghni for having rid the empire
of its disloyal enemies.
Meanwhile one of Prince Ledvi’s many satraps
whom he himself had once installed
to fight and terrorise his peaceful neighbours
gathered an army of his own.
He hadn’t openly opposed his master
so far, but it was rumoured that
Oriac planned a coup against Prince Ledvi
who’d trained him in the ghastly arts.
In Zefna which was once a wealthy kingdom
and now the Emperor’s colony,
he ruled since he had slaughtered king and gentry
in the dreadful name of Xoanan Rex.
‘twas autumn in the Santa Cruifel Valley:
the children frolicked in the fields,
harvesters sang their songs and swung their
sickles,
the market place was buzzing with life.
The fire started from all sides; nobody
survived apart from Xoanan Rex,
who, by some lucky accident, was hunting
the murky hills of Trichistan.
Without a word he watched the valley burning
till there was nothing left to burn,
and, looking at the crater, he asserted:
‘He’ll pay for that! He’ll pay for that!'
Assuring everyone it was Oriac
who’d masterminded this attack,
he asked his pliant vassals for assistance
in order to restore the peace.
‘We’re challenged to stand up for freedom and
justice',
he thundered in a public speech:
‘this man has killed defenceless women and
children,
and he will have to pay for it!
‘There only is one punishment we know of
for the slaying of the innocent!' -
Thousands of subjects cheered their raging ruler
and called for vengeance and for war.
Having secured support for any action
’gainst Zefna and its citizens,
the lucifugous Emperor decided
to fight the battle in the night.
Ten rivers flow across the realm of Zefna,
and hundred water springs supply
its residents, and all of them were poisoned
the night Prince Ledvi took revenge.
And at the sunset of the day that followed
the Sable Army combed the land,
searching all places and the streets and houses
to kill the ones who didn’t die.
But there was not a trace of Earl Oriac
nor of his soldiers to be found;
yet the contented emperor gave orders
to celebrate his victory.
And on the streets his subjects were rejoicing
and waving banners with his arms,
and without cease they all intoned the chorus:
‘Long live our emperor Xoanan Rex!'
The emperor received congratulations
from those he deemed to be his friends;
throughout the night the festival continued
till the last visitor went home.
Prince Ledvi then retired to his chambers
and went to sleep, the door ajar,
but in the middle of his dearest nightmare
he heard one of the hinges creak.
So he sat up, and through the sombre darkness
he saw that Lord Adonikam
stood in the door; without a word Prince Ledvi
fell to his knees and vailed his crown.
‘You’ve always been a dedicated servant,
and well I know of your pursuit
of immortality which you embarked on
a hundred and eighty years ago.
‘Since your return to the Santa Cruifel Valley
you’ve helped my cause enormously,
and as I need reliable disciples,
I now shall grant your vain request.
‘At full moon, walk up to the clerics' chapel,
bring the black rose, one of your locks,
take down the wooden idol of Lord Ghni
and burn them on his altar, chanting:
"Live for a staminal eon!"; when the wolf howls,
take the hot ashes in your hands
and gently blow them through the eastern window,
and you shall live for evermore!'
So when the moon completed his next cycle,
Prince Ledvi took one of his locks
and the black rose; he walked up to the abbey
and burnt them with the cross of Ghni.
‘Live for a staminal eon', he incanted
and heard one of the hinges creak;
as he turned round, he realised the presence
of Noelan and the other saints.
He timidly stepped back as they approached him,
raising the cross against the Prince,
and with a voice that made the belfry tremble
the abbot drove him to the door.
‘This world cries out against the King of Terror:
because of your atrocities
Lord Ghni condemned you, and the reign of horror
shall end before the moon goes down!
‘The morning sun shan’t see you in your empire,
for if she does, you’ll have to die
the longest death a man has ever suffered,
the hills will echo with your screams:
‘Make haste and walk beyond the farthest mountain
where human beings daren’t dwell',
he told the Prince and pushed him cross the
threshold
from where he stumbled to the gates;
With crucifix, thyme leaves and Holy Water
the fierce twelve clerics sent away
Prince Ledvi of the Santa Cruifel Valley
at Bluezebbe Lake near Trichistan.