Good is a neuron in a rocking chair,
calmly assessing every situation
with every single aspect, well aware
there is a need for thorough contemplation.
Using his individual judgment when
nobody else would, impervious to distraction,
assigning equal value to all men,
he carefully suggests your course of action,
regardless of how fellowmen believe
you should proceed or orders you receive.

Evil is trembling at the master's voice,
eager to do as he is told, impressing
your zealous fellowmen, he will rejoice
at every order given as a blessing;
he, seeking reassurance from the crowd
as well as the approval of the master,
compels you to accomplish the avowed
internalised goal right now or even faster,
regardless of the suffering and pain
you'll cause for your and for your master's gain.

One calls for reason, one for rage, and as their fight begins,
you rest assured because you know that you'll decide who wins.

We all die twice. The first time is when we,
mere babes in arms, are forced to sacrifice
our sprightly selves to the society
we were born into since this is the price
for our acceptance and, without much fuss,
become the people others make of us.

A moment of compassion
led John, at life's last stage,
to take his little bluebird
out of his little cage.

And at the open window
he held him in his hand,
‘For many years you've served me,
a singer and a friend.

‘But I have been too selfish
and can no longer bear
to see you caged,’ he whispered
and threw him in the air.

The bluebird hit the pavement,
splashing some passers-by;
caged for so long, he couldn't
remember how to fly.

To you those who are different do not matter;
the way they act or think or look or see
the world has you convinced you have the better
skin colour, culture or neurology.
And so you claim that we should not be giving
them opportunities and shouldn’t fuss
about their right to live a life worth living:
‘Why should we care at all? They’re not like us.’

Then don’t complain about how you don’t matter
to all the members of the golfing class,
those who through birth or ruthlessness are better
off than yourself and toillessly amass
the produce of your labour: your employers,
your landlords and the bankers you condemn,
elected representatives and lawyers.
Why should they care at all? You’re not like them.

The mitläufer just walks (or marches)
along with everybody else,
anxious not to attract attention
as the despiteful movement swells.

He's too afraid to have opinions
and only wants to live his life;
as long as he is unaffected,
he will ignore the others' strife.

He will collaborate exactly
to the extent it takes to appease,
keep a low profile or to further
his prospects or career with ease.

The mitläufer may be denouncing
those out of step with common creed
when necessary or convenient,
but otherwise he'll pay no heed.

And when they take away his neighbour,
he'll shrug his shoulders and proclaim,
‘The innocent need not be fearful;
I'm sure he has himself to blame.’

With rights and people disappearing,
he will pretend he doesn't miss
any of them, callously stating,
‘Ah well, that's just the way it is.’

Compliance, though, is not a safeguard,
and when they come for him one day,
he may appeal to friends and neighbours
who then, in turn, will look away.

The moment that we face a challenge,
our conscience comes to a grinding halt;
though there are many possible settings,
mitläufer is mankind's default.

Fear is conservative. He anxiously
fulfils the expectations of his peers
and his superiors, afraid that he
might be left out like those at whom he sneers.
He lives uneasily because he's scared
of Them whom he perceives to be a threat
to his unchanging way of life, ensnared
by biases, pretence and etiquette.
He sticks to what he knows, and he will bar
anything new or different from his sphere,
he favours leaving things the way they are
or bringing them back into yesteryear.

Hope is progressive. Calmly he decides
his actions, thinking for himself, one man
amidst a world of equals that provides
enough for all, and anything that can
improve his or his fellow humans' lot
is greatly welcomed as he fearlessly
stands up both for himself and others, not
afraid of mainstream or authority.
And even though right from the very start
he is aware his work is never done,
he undeterredly will do his part
to build a better world for everyone.

An intellectual stronghold,
the fortress of the mind
amidst the realm of surprises
is one of a lot of its kind.

Around it the moat of detachment
protects it from obvious foes
who try to invade and take over
and whom each inhabitant knows.

Once the army issued a warning
and told the world and his wife
Diaforetikés were approaching
to threaten their way of life.

'We've already slaughtered thousands
who tried to escape from a land
we destroyed, but there's thousands of others
coming here if we don't take a stand!

'And the worst is that some are already
amongst you today, unbeknown
to the rest of you, secretly plotting
to have your world overthrown.'

The scared inhabitants panicked,
even though they had never seen
Diaforetikés, but they sounded
quite dangerous, ruthless and mean.

They agreed to be tightly protected
by the army who swiftly moved in
and now rules by emergency junta
while their troops make a hell of a din.

From their drinks they refuse to pay for
to the women whose love they can't gain,
the soldiers take what they fancy,
and nobody dares to complain.

On the streets they patrol they harass us,
chase away every beggar and waif,
and ten soldiers in every bedroom
are keeping the occupants safe.

Every citizen having a quarrel
with another can easily be
sent to gaol if accused of being
a true Diaforetikí.

Thus our way of life is protected,
though it be just a little austere,
and the drawbridge of reason is closing
behind the army of fear.

The crippling fear that smothers
your common sense with glee
will always blame the others
for your anxiety.

Fear makes the future bleaker
and causes you to dread
not those in charge but weaker
fellow-oppressed instead.

Fear coaxes you to batten
on those with different minds:
the others’ worldviews threaten
your lives and all mankind’s.

Fear teaches you the stranger
has ways you shan’t discuss:
the others pose a danger
because they’re not like us.

Fear blackens and belittles
the foreigner who strives:
the others want your vittles,
the others want your wives.

Nothing destroys you faster
than serving in his shade:
once you’ve made fear your master,
you’ll always be afraid.

Fear is the Master of Mankind. His mission
is pulling strings and minds, and yet he’ll still
teach the enslaved about their own free will
which ought to correspond to his position.

His ruthless manherds keep us, most insistent,
in check, creating gods from the defiled
blood of the innocent who, neatly styled,
demand innocent blood to stay existent.

His manherds line their pockets as they’re spreading
the Fear of They, the chosen target, thus
promoting They’s increasing Fear of Us
and watching gleefully where this is heading.

And since his manherds have so much to gain,
we will not be allowed to break the chain.

Now the suspense is over; mankind stands at the dusk
of the interapocalyptic, facing the horn and tusk
of future denying access to its repulsive lair
from where we catch a glimpse of Medusa's hateful stare.

The snakes have left their burrows and gathered for the feast
the remainder of the living now hosts for the deceased,
and where the stainless bodies are washed in others' blood,
their children all are carried away by this great flood.

The leaders who will lead us unto the very end
are preying on adherents who fail to understand;
their puff-brained congregation is ignorant and proud,
and puffballs being trampled create a mushroom cloud.

The lemming parish dwindles; we follow where they go,
not asking any questions because we think they know
exactly where they're going, so we don't watch our step
as heretics are doing, and ask them for no map.

The promise of the vulture to see the sheep empow'red
has left the world a carcass, ready to be devoured,
and out on the horizon where trolls and wildfires rage,
the acolytes of Mammon ring in the terminal age.

And burning avalanches with force that cannot miss
roll from the garbage mountains to level the abyss
and bury those whose fear and those whose profit grows:
the interapocalyptic is drawing to a close.

The time will come and can
not bear much more demur
when Nature does to man
what man has done to her.

The skies and seas will clear
in time, and everywhere
clean water will appear
and unpolluted air.

Her children all who still
have managed to survive
mankind’s excursions will
recover, grow and thrive.

And as her creatures heal
and prosper day by day,
her flora will conceal
the ruins of our stay.

We cling to the event horizon, sure
to soon return to where we were before
or to an even better place with more
comforts and rights if only we endure.

Each astrophysicist will be quite clear:
at this location things are looking black -
there’s no return, and there’s no looking back
from an event horizon once we’re here.

The all-consuming agent of our fall
has brought us here to claim its final toll
as the immense insatiable black hole
of capitalism soon will swallow all.

A country is a business, and henceforth
there are no citizens or basic rights
but merely customers and services
with service charges reaching unknown heights.

Our board of managers, the government,
finance our enterprises with great zeal
from taxes and from charges they collect
from all of you to get the perfect deal.

This way our business ventures cannot fail
with all our profits firmly set in stone,
and those who can’t afford our services
are on their own.

'You don't pay tax on money you steal.'
- JOHNNY CASH, 'The Chicken in Black'

If we billionaires paid taxes,
you would have to reimburse
us; we'd raise your rents, cut wages
and exploit you even worse.
All our services and products
would become much dearer still;
profits made on backs of others
is the population's will.

So instead of paying taxes,
we take grants and subsidies
from the taxpayers whose struggles
in our lifetime will not cease.
Our small change could end world hunger,
but we rather flaunt our worth
with a ride through space and, to your
chagrin, then return to Earth.

Offshore bank accounts are flooded
with our loot as you scrape by
and some capital invested
just to grow and multiply,
piles of money with no other
purpose than to boost our weak
egos and our social status
while mankind is up the creek.

We breathe industrial emissions
of centuries with skill;
the crooked fingers of the past
are in our future's till.

Thanks to the aeons of bad farming,
wildfires are raging still;
the crooked fingers of the past
are in our future's till.

And in our future's till today,
since centuries of theft
have taken most of what was there,
only small change is left.

It'll soon be empty if we keep
enabling to the last
the crooked fingers of the present,
as happened in the past.

That the progressive exploitation
of limited resources must
be finite is an observation
a simple child could make, I trust.

Those who exploit and whom we’re dreading
always desire more than they own
and will, by any means, be spreading;
the world’s their oyster, and theirs alone.

Dwindling resources still are treated
as if they weren’t; they carry on,
for by the time they are depleted,
they will themselves be dead and gone.

Christians, ignoring every scorner,
have, for millennia, been sure
the Rapture is around the corner
and their inclusion most secure.

They claim the Earth is man’s possession,
and by the time it’ll be used up,
they think, they’re in that great procession
in Heaven with a golden cup.

And that’s why we are pessimistic:
capitalism’s regiment
is championed by the egoistic,
by Christians and the ignorant.

Capitalism knows no friend nor neighbour
and keeps the rabble down to stay alive;
besides the other slaves it owns for labour,
it needs its gladiators to survive.

But it is vital that these men are pitted
against each other so they never may
notice the mutual enemy, committed
to slaughtering each other on display.

By nature we hurt people with each action
we have to take in our superiors' name
but tell the ones who voice dissatisfaction
that other gladiators are to blame.

When gladiators enter the arena,
they must regard opponents they don't know
as less than human; this obscene demeanour
ensures they will not see the common foe.

An insurrection of the gladiators
would end our and our masters' world of ease,
therefore we need a policy that caters
to their distinct dissimilarities.

We turn those who are white against all others
and those who struggle hard to pay their rent
against the homeless, Christian girls and brothers
against all other faiths which they resent,

Those who conform against suspicion casters,
the unemployed against the refugees,
migrants who flee the terror of our masters,
minorities against minorities.

They fight to death amidst mutual derision
while all the house and field slaves cheer them on.
Our privilege depends upon division;
therefore it's fragile and could soon be gone.

But if we reinforce the slightest schism
in ways these muttonheads can't comprehend,
the gladiators of capitalism
will fight each other to the bitter end.

'Is justice a-coming? Is justice a-coming?'
the trees asked their fate as they lay on the ground,
still struggling to understand what just happened
amidst all the chainsaws' most deafening sound.

'Not as such,' their impersonal fate smugly answered,
'but you'll be delighted to hear, while dismayed,
that, since their rapacious employer went bankrupt,
the workers who felled you are not being paid.'

'Is justice a-coming?' the trees kept insisting.
'You'll be happy to know, though the comfort be small,
that the 10-acre car park that was to replace you
will never materialise after all.'

He added, 'I guess you're already aware that
this state of affairs leads to nobody's gain,
but we'll use you to fuel our weapons' production,
so your generous sacrifice won't be in vain.'

Spiting the progressives' blurting,
soon mankind will be reverting
to the status quo;
how conformity has shaped me,
how uncaringness has draped me,
how reality escaped me,
I shall never know.

I obey without reflection,
copy others with each action,
and that makes me free;
all the ones who try to shake up
what we have and plead to wake up
do not matter since we make up
the majority.

Conservatives claim everyone should be
as they are, from the colour of their skin
to what they think, and those who don't fit in
should be removed from the community.

If all these herded people had their way,
sameness would be the measure of one's worth,
the status quo enshrined across the Earth,
and life would be eternal yesterday.

What would the world be like they so desire?
If everybody was conservative
as they insist upon, we still would live
in barren caves without the use of fire.

Now that conservatives write history, we're taught
natives exterminated one another in
the countries to which Christian Europeans brought
'civilisation' as they took them, blacks have been
enslaved to learn some useful skills while kept in thrall,
Hitler did some good things, though many people frown
upon him, Palestine did not exist at all
and billionaires worked for their wealth which trickles down.

The world is sleeping soundly, time runs out to wake:
the future of the past at present is at stake.

The conjoined twin sheep who are told they're thriving,
Compliance and Conformity, are spooked
by the idea of freedom, and their driving
fear is to not fit in or be rebuked.

Two sheep afraid of making a decision,
two heads without a single thought to greet,
four eyes that operate in tunnel vision,
eight legs that never marched to their own beat.

They do what's ordered and expected, needing
the reinforcement while they're forcing all
others to do the same; they're always heeding
the shepherd's and, at last, the butcher's call.

And yet the conjoined sheep appear to be
the sole foundation of society.

The valued trinkets of oppression
are inexpensive but maintain
the status quo: a prized possession
of those who serve and don't complain.

A medal for obeying orders,
a title for the firm embrace
of your credendum and its warders,
praise for the man who knows his place:

All these cost less than one cold shower
at home but necessarily
will be repaid with strengthened power
and faith beyond all sanity.

When a minority gets restless
and is demanding human rights,
or when amidst the stock injustice
another grave assault ignites
acts of resistance from the people
held down, leading to some unrest,
the rage of the oppressor always
outweighs the rage of the oppressed.

Having their privileges challenged
by those who do not know their place,
the ones in charge will make examples
of those who raised their voice and chase
their followers and allies, claiming
their words are leaving them distressed:
the rage of the oppressor always
outweighs the rage of the oppressed.

Some, whenever there are others
in their way or coming near,
panic and, afraid of difference,
throw the boomerang of fear.

But a lot of these inciters
meet, while still their hatred burns,
horrifying fates thereafter
when their boomerang returns.

Say, why are the children so angry
and skip school to take to the street?
They should learn for their future instead of
protesting against the elite.

There’ll be nothing left for the children,
that’s why they are rightly annoyed.
What’s the point of an education
in a future that you have destroyed?

Say, why are the children so noisy
and scream at our leaders who know
what is best for the people? They shouldn’t
be allowed to speak up till they grow.

They’re upset by the fact that their elders
have used up the planet through
the compliance of the many
and the bottomless greed of the few.

Say, why are the children so feisty
and demand that we change our ways?
We wouldn’t have dared to challenge
our betters in olden days.

Generations were silent; this isn’t,
pointing out all the guilty and blind
who expect them to build their futures
on the wastelands you’ve left behind.

Education is a weapon
we should not hand out to foes,
but the recent past has witnessed
urchins armed with it, and those
often question fate’s designs:
send the kids back to the mines!

Formerly who could afford it
had their children tutored while
other kids increased our profits
as they laboured with a smile.
But today they rest their spines;
send the kids back to the mines!

Lettered commoners may challenge
the established status quo,
claiming rights they have invented
like equality, and no
compromise will quench their whines:
send the kids back to the mines!

Taxes common people pay for
education thus should be
used to subsidise our business
ventures; the economy
would be thriving like wild vines:
send the kids back to the mines!

Let’s reclaim the world we’d conquered
and abolish this disgrace,
so the children of the common
man again will learn their place
lest our grip on man declines:
send the kids back to the mines!

Since the colonialists stampeded through
the promised lands back in the good old days
and bid most native folk a rough adieu,
they have established resource takeaways
which, run by whites for whites, provide the stuff
of which consumers cannot get enough.

They’re drive-throughs where their customers receive
their orders as they’re passing by, and so
the busy businessmen don’t have to leave
their cars to see their ill-gained fortunes grow,
a great convenience at their riches’ font
in the exotic ambience of want.

Lack of initiative to which the steep
poverty of surviving tribes is linked
warrants a large exclusion zone to keep
customers safe, and yet the most distinct
advantage of the resource takeaway
is that its customers don’t have to pay.

As the planet’s largest empire
under mentally unfit
rulers fell apart, the headless
countries couldn’t deal with it.

Ancient knowledge was forgotten
within decades, and the few
moral values that existed
were renounced without ado.

Education was abandoned,
and entire peoples fled
persecution, war and famine,
dying somewhere else instead.

Facts gave way to superstitions
as the ancient world was sliced
up, and multitudes were slaughtered
in the bloodstained name of Christ.

And whatever untaxed merchants
ordered, kings and lords complied;
all was financed by the country’s
poorest who paid up or died.

With the loss of civilisation
came the most incompetent
heads of state as well as grossly
arbitrary government.

Shamelessly overt corruption
of officials helped to feed
people’s culture of extortion,
hatred, ignorance and greed.

This millennium’s dark intro
strikes me as a logic-free
remake of the Middle Ages
with advanced technology.

We all are spares. As this world’s billionaires
send out their henchmen and their legal teams,
look at the world to see: we all are spares.

We constitute, though mostly unawares,
a pool to pick from for their fortunes’ streams,
despite what the establishment declares.

We’re all competing for the nobles’ heirs’
substandard housing and employment schemes.
Look at the world to see: we all are spares.

Their wars line pockets and increase their shares’
value; they do not mind the blood and screams,
despite what the establishment declares.

And though the odd MP pretends he cares,
observe his actions and his programme’s themes.
Look at the world to see: we all are spares.

The individual and his affairs
will never matter to this world’s regimes.
Despite what the establishment declares,
look at the world to see: we all are spares.

Her masters tricked and bound her
with incoherent rants;
as corpses piled around her,
they whispered hateful chants.
She knows that she’ll be dying
after her song and wrings
her hands. Reason is sighing,
and the fat lady sings.

Her masters have succeeded:
dark silence trails their lies
as they remove what’s needed,
and from the topsoil rise
black plumes, a daunting token
of the austere dim things
to come; the mob has spoken
and the fat lady sings.

They have no clue, they have no skill
as they live out their well-paid stints,
they only have the iron will
to do their masters’ bidding since
they were installed by those in power:
the watchmen in the Ivory Tower.

From up above they supervise
our work and lives with unearned pride.
The tower is their fort of lies;
the few who are allowed inside
are forced to tend the thriving flower
of hubris in the Ivory Tower.

The exercise yard is the place
where we perform for them and get
our breadcrumbs, subject to their grace;
it often rains, and we get wet,
but nothing drenches like the shower
that reigns down from the Ivory Tower.

The Fellowship of Decadence was formed
back when the world was up for grabs by those
who want more than exists, the ones who swarmed
the world to stake their claims and caused our woes.

To make their greed acceptable, they taught
the art of decadence to every serf,
so in our little worlds each toy is fought
over intensely and each piece of turf.

The Fellowship of Decadence won’t fall
into decline, as we can plainly see,
since decadence has, in no time at all,
become the way of life for you and me.

Your midnight oil you shouldn't share;
it's valuable and scant, and therefore
when it is burnt, you should take care
it’s for the projects that you care for.

Others will try to frack your mind
after they've dried the well of reason,
and once you're drained, you're left behind
like shucks to curse them for their treason.

For if you burn your midnight oil,
the driving force is inspiration;
if others burn your midnight oil,
the driving force is exploitation.

This is the rabble speaking,
the people you detest
outside elections, seeking
your ears to hear the rest.

We are the ones who fend for
our struggling families,
work for the ones you stand for
and pay your salaries.

You deem yourself enamel
on our suppressor’s crown
while we are but the camel
who bears your loads face down.

The burden that we carry
along with you and yours
is large, but you don’t tarry -
a camelid endures.

‘There is no cause to worry,
the camel knows the score,’
you tell yourself and hurry
to add a little more.

We may not look foreboding
as yet but soon could crack:
think twice before you’re loading
that straw upon our back.

Fear not the people who don’t share
the type and colour of your skin:
they’re of the selfsame human make
as you, your neighbours and your kin.

Fear not the people who don’t share
your culture; though it mayn’t be known
to you, they have a culture which
is just as valid as your own.

Fear not the people who don’t share
the faith you’ve been assigned at birth;
what can’t be seen should not put walls
between the people of this Earth.

Fear not the people who don’t share
your social nature; you may not
know it, but many quiet men
care more than those who talk a lot.

No, fear the people who divide
you and the Others from afar,
relying on the fact their prey
don’t see who their oppressors are.

Fear is a salesman with no competition:
in order to create a market, he
needs to create intolerance, suspicion
and boastful ignorance for all to see.

For starters he will warn you of the dangers
of the unknown and different creeping in
and then point out your neighbours are but strangers,
secretly plotting to destroy your kin.

As soon as he has scared you into hiring
his services after your peace has popped,
he will convince your neighbours you're conspiring
against them and demand you must be stopped.

He'll kindle tensions while assisting neither
of the two parties and, exactly like
a deity, await the day when either
side will be launching the preemptive strike.

You'll turn to him to seek revenge, quite willing
to give him all you have so he'll wipe out
all of your hated enemies, fulfilling
your wish for peace under his watchful clout.

Just like your adversaries he'll direct you
to hand him over all your funds and, too,
your rights and freedom so he may protect you
from those whom he, in turn, protects from you.

He stands above the ashes in elation,
a Machiavellian salesman filled with glee,
the only one to gain from his creation:
a feud he'll fuel for all eternity.

We’re the Free World, and free we’ll always be,
but from the nations that we bomb they sent
their demagogues and terrorists, intent
on undermining our democracy.

In days of yore, with caution and remorse,
we let you speak, and you have always been
allowed to voice your point of view - within
capitalist parameters, of course.

But now our safety is at stake, and so
we will not tolerate audacities,
your criticism of our policies
or hate speech questioning the status quo.

We have decided to suspend your freedom
so we’ll be able to defend your freedom.

Back in the old days when the truth
had raised his head, the government
blocked his disclosures with uncouth
censorship to a bizarre extent.

They used their powers to conceal
his mere existence and deprived
him of the means to leak and squeal,
but then the Internet arrived.

And since they had to change their ways,
a brand new option was explored
and proved successful: nowadays
the awkward truth is but ignored.

The Stagecoach of History passes
the gates to the future tonight
once the coachman delivered the letters
past victors have sent so we’ll write
our history books according
to those who at last have prevailed
and collected the documents victors
of today desire to be mailed.

But messages from the defeated
are always turned down by the crook,
so when the grim coachman is busy,
we all should sneak up there and look
for papers slipped in undetected,
notes carved in the bottom or clues
they may have attached to the axle
and then do the same with our news.

When the space explorers were gathered
to discuss the commanders' plan
for the aeon ahead, one requested
to visit a planet again
he had passed on a previous mission
through a massive galaxy;
‘I think we should be exploring
its potentiality.’

The general smiled. ‘And what planet
is this? Are there civilised forms
of life?’ - ‘I think there's potential,
albeit not yet by our norms;
you know that little blue planet
my fellow astronauts scoff
and where the dominant species
is killing each other off.’

‘You would try to contact an anthill
to figure out how it reacts;
we look for intelligent species
to exchange ideas and facts.
We're not in the habit of teaching
barbarians while we explore;
besides, by the time you would get there
they won't be around anymore.’

We once lived in a land of plenty,
providing fruit from many a tree,
sufficient game to feed our people
and lots of shellfish from the sea.

Then white men came and took our country
as if they were this planet's heirs,
enforced their so-called civilisation
and claimed the land and sea were theirs.

Now fruit and game are in locations
they labelled private property,
and we are not allowed to harvest
mussels and oysters from the sea.

Now we've to earn Earth's produce working
upon the land they took away;
meanwhile, to make ends meet, our children
must labour in the mines all day.

And if we dare demand our country
or human rights, our claims are not
considered, but we are quite clearly
told to appreciate our lot:

‘You ought to be a bit more grateful,
for you were savages, you see,
but we have brought you full employment
and a robust economy!’

The old ones told us of the Windigo,
a fiend that feeds and thrives on human flesh,
and every meal would make the creature grow,
so, getting hungry, it would start afresh.

The more it eats, the more it grows in height;
the more it grows, the hungrier it gets,
so the ungentle giant's appetite
sends it on killing sprees with no regrets.

When in the end the Windigo destroyed
all human life around it, it is doomed
to starve amidst the vast and barren void
that it created when it last consumed.

Is it not scary how in days of yore
a storytelling Cree's perceptive mind
foresaw Capitalism long before
the beast emerged to terminate mankind?

Lakota set up camp amidst the badlands
they now had to call home since, with firm wills,
gold miners, settlers and the US Army
had robbed their people of their lush Black Hills.

But keenly they awaited the Messiah
who would, as the young prophet had foretold,
eject the greedy White Man from their country
and recreate their paradise of old.

The prophet taught them not to use their weapons
but to perform the Ghost Dance and await
the Saviour, dressed in ghost shirts which, ‘twas promised,
no bullet and no spear could penetrate.

So they performed it on the reservation,
emboldened by invincibility;
the settlers became fearful when Lakota
were dancing in the snow at Wounded Knee.

Five hundred soldiers killed three hundred children,
women and men whose shirts did not protect
them from their bullets, and the few survivors
now realised that they had no effect.

But our few thousand masters would face billions
if we confronted them whose spacious cup
runs over; all their arms could not defeat us,
so let’s put on our ghost shirts and stand up.

The Takers of Advantage
have gathered at the trough
of human need and suff’ring,
which there is plenty of.

Each time their trough is fuller;
their fathers long ago
had sowed that need and suff’ring
to see their business grow.

In order for their profits
and power to expand,
they went out to the people
and claimed their homes and land.

These, for their sheer survival,
were browbeaten to agree
to labour for a pittance
that fed no family.

Today these men’s descendants
receive a more and more
decreasing pinch of breadcrumbs
as payment, like before.

The takers stuff their faces,
swagger, deride and scoff;
meanwhile the robbed keep working
to fill the takers’ trough.

The Takers of Advantage
with their omnivorous taste
can’t eat all they are taking,
so most is going to waste.

Beware supremacists who disconnect
from humankind; I hold that those who brag
of triumphs not their own and who respect
a dead thing like an anthem or a flag
more than a living human being can
not claim a place amongst humanity
where man is equal to his fellowman;
observe these people closely, and you'll see
no trace of pity is detectable,
for they respect the unrespectable.

But we are not entirely free of blame
if we look on where others suffer wrongs,
if we obey authorities who claim
all power is with them where it belongs,
if we stay silent, failing to protect
society's most vulnerable souls
or if we, knowingly or not, neglect
our own responsibility at the polls:
when we elect the unelectable,
we, too, respect the unrespectable.

The Lighthouse of Humanity
withstands each storm and gust
and overlooks the raging sea
of hatred and mistrust.

Beneath it the secreted ridge
of bigoted abuse
and the sheer cliffs of privilege
endanger ships and crews.

The currents of intolerance
gulp vessels by the score;
meanwhile the stately lighthouse stands
in darkness as before.

It even witnessed the event
at which, with many hands,
the pirate ship Entitlement
set out to foreign lands.

It stands up high where it could be
the sailors’ guide and light,
a beacon of equality,
a lantern in the night.

But since the harbour masters see
no profits underhand,
the Lighthouse of Humanity
today remains unmanned.

Do you recall how in the good old days
there was no man who wouldn’t help his neighbour
in times of need, and how there were more ways
one could enjoy the fruits of one’s hard labour?

Do you recall how peaceful life was then,
how everybody shone with inner beauty,
illuming the community back when
none of its members shirked from doing their duty?

Do you recall the times all went to plan,
the councillors were not Big Business’ minions,
the government worked for the common man,
and little children didn’t have opinions?

Try to remember when the world was ever
like in these memories and notice: never!

Sixteen tons and forty acres
are the means to keep us slaves
in our place and make us follow
from our cradles to our graves.

We have learned to fear our owners,
serving them as many years
as the universe has layers
with our labour and our tears.

The arcana of us minors
is to numb our angry souls,
and we find our heart's ambitions
emptied out like Aubrey holes.

Told that with hard work and effort
we may, too, be masters, we
live our lives to feed our owners
and support their gluttony.

Crammed under our masters' table,
we compete for every crumb:
sixteen tons and forty acres
make the world go round for some.

Chanting mantras as instructed,
we all leave our dreams unvoiced;
sixteen tons and forty acres
keep the scales unequipoised.

Why is the world so crooked?
A horn of plenty once,
it nursed, but greed since took it
and made mankind a dunce.

And soon the fear of others
was planted in our brains;
now paranoia smothers
humanity's remains.

While its perpetual coffers
supply for me and you,
most of what nature offers
is taken by a few.

And we just let them, fighting
their wars on states and men,
knowing we can't be righting
most of these wrongs again.

And yet there is potential
for happiness for all
by following essential
advice as in the call,

‘Don't kill or hurt your brother
or made-up enemies,
and don't deprive another
of bare necessities.’

How long will evolution
withhold through fear that blinds
so simple a solution
from simple human minds?

Midst flaming hoops and burning bridges
the troupes arrive; their show attracts
the lowest of the low as troupers
perform the most disgraceful acts.
The circus of abominations
spreads misery that even Job
the volunteer could not imagine:
the vaudeville death squad tours the globe.

Some blow up villages, saw children
in half and stage more daring feats,
some dress up oddly and then feather
and tar spectators in the streets.
The crowd applauds the vile performers,
be they in uniform or robe;
as the directors count the profits,
the vaudeville death squad tours the globe.

Some introduce a well-trained human
dancing on glowing embers, burn
the theatre they have performed in,
and just before they leave, they turn
the audience against each other
to copy everything they do.
The vaudeville death squad will quite shortly
be coming to a place near you!

If you kill one, you are a murderer.
If you kill dozens, you're a serial killer.
If you kill hundreds, you're a noted hero.
If you kill thousands, you're a great commander.
If you kill millions, you're a gifted statesman.

Don’t get me started.

But that the dread of [...]
the undiscovered country from whose bourn
no traveller returns, puzzles the will
and makes us rather bear those ills we have
than fly to others that we know not of.
- William Shakespeare, Hamlet

You say the world we live in needs some changes
for being unsustainable and rife
with pure injustice, but who rearranges
the world will also rearrange our life.
You claim there always is a better option,
a fairer system waiting in the wing,
but we can't fathom what the rash adoption
of an unproved philosophy may bring.

There's nothing we can do about the present
to ease our lot, and though the status quo
admittedly is but the most unpleasant
and costliest system, it's the one we know.
It's true that others suffer from unkinder
yokes than we do, but we cannot reverse
their fate which serves us as a stern reminder
that life for us could be a whole lot worse.

We know that you mean well, and while we greatly
appreciate the heroes of the past
who fought to overcome the wrongs innately
incorporated in their culture, classed
as ineluctability, we surely
oppose attempts to change reality
at present, and to do so prematurely;
the world's not perfect, it'll never be.

Although you're right and all injustice grieves us,
some things will never turn out right, we know;
therefore, unless a miracle relieves us,
we'll passively protect the status quo.

The starving market women marched,
marched on Versailles with kitchen knives;
both marching and not marching meant
they were endangering their lives.

The ball got rolling, and the king
was soon removed from absolute
pow’r; then they were prevented from
reaping their risky labour’s fruit.

The new regime, just like the old,
was not concerned about the poor,
and so the women now were left
outside the great Convention’s door.

As heads kept rolling, they looked on,
thankful they were not theirs, perhaps;
they sat beside the guillotine
and kept on knitting liberty caps.

Today we often vote against
the ones in power, just to find
the ones we voted for are of
a similarly selfish mind.

One crowd is out, the next is in,
and yet no changes can be seen:
what else is there for us to do
than knit beside the guillotine?

When it comes to an election
or an anniversary,
representatives take action
almost automatically
and, with members of their caste,
honour heroes of the past.

Rescuers and freedom fighters,
whistleblowers, people who
sheltered refugees, inciters
of resistance and a few
others now are, recompensed,
posthumously countenanced.

Meanwhile they are prosecuting
all the heroes of today
as they’ll never be recruiting
those who pave a better way;
these end up in gaol or hiding
for the service they’re providing.

If the heroes who are buried
knew how those who praise them hate
their successors, greatly flurried
they’d return to set things straight.
Heroes don’t desire our praise
if we don’t include today’s.

When Fear went to the ballots,
he trusted voices that
blamed others, so he voted
for the hateful candidate.

Defending his decision,
he blustered, ‘To be free,
we must destroy the people
who cause our misery!’

When Hope went to the ballots,
he contemplated that
things might improve and voted
for the sanguine candidate.

And with an optimistic
smile he explained his stance,
‘Though things may not get better,
at least there'll be a chance.’

Since time began a self-declared elite
has claimed their rank entitles them to be
sustained by common people whom they treat
as mere providers for their luxury.

They, though they leave the commoners bled dry,
keep claiming more and more as time goes on,
convinced there is a limitless supply
of blood to build their monuments upon.

Yet there's a breaking point as we have seen,
such as in France in 1789
and Russia in October ’17,
and now in Western countries that decline.

But what the masses deem the remedy
failed Germany in 1933.

The city of Hamburg burns with anger
at the ravagers of the Earth and mankind
who defile her welcoming port with their presence
to discuss how more rights can be undermined.

As the tables are lavishly laid for our masters
with the spoils from the world on which they dine
in their guarded bastille, they scoff at the masses,
'If they can't afford water, let them drink wine.'

The city of Hamburg burns with compassion
that cares way beyond her city gates
and claims human rights for all on a planet
our leaders have led into direst straits.

The handful who own us shall not be able
to keep shackles on billions forever; the road
from Hamburg should lead to a destination
where everyone takes whatever they're owed.

The city of Hamburg burns with longing
for a world of freed equals where others are not
seen as allies or foes but as brothers and sisters
while today's injustices won't be forgot.

...

Our overlords left, leaving nothing but ashes
behind to continue their path which defies
humanity, but the sun keeps on shining:
we all are Hamburg, and Hamburg will rise!

In the country that begins with X
there's more peace than only peace of mind;
its advanced society bedecks
their estate with gifts for all mankind.

All its citizens pay what they owe,
and they all receive what they are due;
therefore all of them can prosper, grow
and succeed instead of just a few.

Visitors and residents reflect
all the wealth and heart that country shows
where the streets are paved with great respect
and the gates of justice never close.

On contentment's promenade the still
air brings out some folk who love the sea;
others climb the mountains of goodwill
where they drink from wells of liberty.

How that country's fortune was enriched
when the perilous and quite immense
chasm of diversity was bridged
by the viaduct of tolerance!

In the past it had endured a hex,
caused by greed and hatred at its shore,
but the country that begins with X
is, at last, a savage place no more.

We are employers – every now and then
we hire new employees who have a laugh:
we, other than your regular employer,
can’t manage and can't discipline our staff.

During the interview they tell us how
they will improve and boost our company,
but once they have the job, they give us the bird,
even deciding their own salary.

They sell our assets, plunder our accounts,
they fill their pockets to the brim, pursue
their own agendas, and they leave us bankrupt,
because they know there’s nothing we can do.

They still have the audacity to tell us
they work for us while everybody sees
that we, the paralysed electorate,
are powerless against our employees.

The bokors of this world drug other mortals
into a stupor and control their will
to make them readily queue at the portals
and operate their ancient zombie mill.

They are rewarded with their daily soma
after they worked the treadwheel nine to five,
the zombie powder that prolongs their coma
while causing them to think that they're alive.

They ridicule the notion they're unliving
and boast about their productivity;
as long as their possessors keep on giving
them soma, they insist, their souls are free.

And as the zombies footslog to their fife,
the bokors in their fortress live the life.

Of course you need a qualification
to be a barber and take care
of whitewalls and of pompadours,
because we trust you with our hair.

Of course you need a qualification
as clerk of a bank where people stash
their money and regard it safe,
because we trust you with our cash.

But you don't need a qualification
to be a parent or MP,
because you only rule our lives -
just how demanding could that be?

When Alexander the supposedly
Great conquered Gordium (I guess a lot
of you learned this in school), he was approached
and challenged to untie the Gordian Knot.

Thought to be ununtiable, this work
of art, this masterpiece made out of cord
that'd lasted for two thousand years or more,
was sliced by Alexander with his sword.

His soldiers cheered and praised their fervent king's
intelligence and ingenuity,
but the young conqueror was lucky that
my mother didn't see his victory.

If I, no less original and smart
than Alexander, ever would have tried
to cut the string of a tied box, she would
have told me off, extinguishing my pride.

And if she'd been in Gordium, no way
would she have praised or even feared the king,
‘Alex, one does not cut through knots,’ she would
have told him. ‘There is always use for string.’

And in a world still torn by many a sword,
the Alexandrian solution is,
in fact, the problem; thus we should express
ourselves in other ways than copying his.

The Macedonian king should not have cut
the knot a gifted artist did create;
and when he did, his men should not have cheered;
and when they did, he shouldn't have felt great.

(based on Erich Kästner's article Der gordische Knoten)

Do you remember when as children
we had to climb each wall
we saw to train our sense of balance
and to feel ten feet tall?

Defying any separation
of promenade and sea,
of field or garden and the footpath,
it was the place to be.

At first we held dad's hand for safety
but soon let go and, prone
to insecurities, we proudly
succeeded on our own.

Today we do not climb partitions
the way we did before,
we don't admire the world beneath us
and walk on walls no more.

The windswept children of the future,
no doubt, will hear their parents call
their world much better than the backward
one back when they were small.

The windswept children of the future,
before their worldviews are arranged,
will estimate the world around them
and wonder what has changed.

Once they have grown, they'll be discussing
their parents in the selfsame way
their windswept children of the future
will speak of them one day.

‘The wolf is beautiful!’ the cavegirl shouted.
‘Could we not catch and tame him for
our family?’ – Her father softly answered,
‘Then he would be a wolf no more.’

The farmer sowed his field one sunny day.
The crows said, 'Look, he feeds us!' and swooped down.
The farmer pulled his gun, and with a frown
he shot the crows and carried them away.

'He's trapped us,' croaked the chief. 'Go out and see
whether he eats them or just wants their hide.'
Two fledglings left, returned and said, 'They died
to fill a hole behind the chestnut tree.'

'That is disgraceful,' said the chief. 'He killed
our friends to fill a hole? Let's gather wood
and leaves and twigs, and soon enough we should
finish his task and have the hollow filled.'

And so the hole was covered to the brim.
The chief announced, 'The farmer won't require
another crow. Eat to your heart's desire;
there's no more cause to be afraid of him!'

A crow swooped down and pecked a grain before
the farmer's very eyes. He looked the same
way that he looked before and took his aim
and shot her while the others watched in awe.

And as the farmer carried off the crow,
the chief just gulped and uttered, 'Here's the thing -
there's nothing wrong with inductive reasoning,
but there must be some factors we don't know.'

- - - - - - -

Behind the tree the farmer shook his head
as he disposed of her and saw the close
arrangement in the hole, 'God love those crows -
who would have thought they bury their own dead?'

As they were running from the raging
bushfire to reach a safer spot,
a lone wolf and a feral donkey
commenced to talk about their lot.

‘I used to live and hunt with others,’
the wolf remembered with a groan;
‘their herd mentality annoyed me,
and I fare better on my own.’

‘I used to be a beast of burden,’
the donkey brayed, ‘but by and by
I figured out it's not my purpose
to carry others' loads and die.’

‘Though we've been burnt,’ the wolf concluded,
'our independence stayed intact;
it's clear we were not meant to live as
pack animals, and that's a fact.’

We've all had shattered dreams, and we may weep
or throw a fit when seeing we can't win,
pick up the pieces, hurl them in the bin,
or walk away; they're nothing we would keep.

A little girl once lay in slumber deep;
a pleasant dream was ready to begin,
but, by a terrifying force within,
that dream was shattered while she was asleep.

Before she woke her relatives debated
what could be done if she should cry and scream;
her optimism was quite underrated.

There was no disappointment and no stream
of tears; instead the little girl created
a great mosaic from her shattered dream.

When your pursuit of happiness,
due to the Fates' harassment,
ends in a cul-de-sac, I guess
it's time for reassessment.

Then be no grouch who just despairs
and lives for life's resentment
but take a breath, dismiss your cares
and settle for contentment.

In the Jardin des Plantes, Paris

His gaze has tired from passing bars that break up
his mind; he holds no more, a spirit furled.
He thinks there are a thousand bars that make up
his life, and past a thousand bars no world.

Firm paces in a steady stride tread longly
within the tiniest circle like a mill
wheel, like a dance of pow'r that orbits strongly
the axis of a numbed but mighty will.

Rarely the curtain of his eye is lifted
to let an image enter; like a dart
it travels through tense limbs where it is shifted
and ceases being in the heart.

(Translation of Rainer Maria Rilke's Der Panther)

When peace at last approached his weary mind
and the relief for which he so did yearn,
he gazed upon the coast where he would learn
to leave the worries of the past behind.

He'd wandered through the jungle where he'd pined
for peace and safety as his heart did burn,
with unknown dangers lurking at each turn
and challenges no other man could find.

And finally he reached the peaceful shore
with golden sand, blue waters, verdant swards
and nothing to be scared of anymore.

His days flowed slowly and they struck no chords,
and in the peace he thought of days of yore,
shouldered his bindle and strolled junglewards.

Our lives are patches with their own motif,
their different shapes and sizes randomly
assigned and patched together; we don't see
too far beyond ourselves and our belief.

Our lives will touch each other for a brief
and unknown time span, and the more that we
appreciate each opportunity,
the less we'll feel regret within our grief.

Our impossibility to reach the past
and limited ability to reach
the future should not leave ourselves resigned;
we all can make an impact that may last
by our mere effort and contribute each
to the unceasing patchwork of mankind.

We haven't always been this free and easy;
our ancestors lived in an era when
they were imprisoned in corrals and stables
and forced to work and carry goods and men.

We have to thank the many daring heroes
who, facing punishment, stayed brave and strong,
who shed their ploughs and who escaped their masters
to get back to the wild where we belong.

That's how they freed themselves from all those people
who think we're property to own and tame,
and as we watch them in their cars and houses,
we wonder why they haven't done the same.

The dayflower addressed the setting sun,
‘I shall be dying with your light and would
quite like to understand why when you stood
highest, you never taught me of your run.

‘Since I believed that life had just begun
when it got close to noon, you really should
have notified me that this was as good
as it would get before my day is done.

‘You should have pointed out my peak,’ she said,
‘and you should have encouraged me to quaff
your light upon a path I won't retread.’

The sun however answered with a laugh,
‘You would have hung your petals and your head
in deep despair and missed the second half.’

Mankind is not an organism
that functions as a whole and may
consider parts as unimportant,
to be cut out when in the way.

According to the facts mankind is
made up of, as we all should see,
eight billion individual persons
whose welfare matters equally.

We're not a faceless mass of otherness,
we're individuals who try to get
through life, just like yourself, but have to fear
that now this very life is under threat.

Bombed by your master and his satellites,
exploited by your corporations, starved
for others' profit and expelled from what
we called our home, our destiny was carved.

We're fellow human beings, nothing less,
just take a closer look at us to see
it for yourself, and this is all we ask:
the right to live, and live with dignity.

When you who is an immigrant's descendant
(unless your ancestors and you have stayed
in Ethiopia since Homo sapiens
emerged and none of you has ever strayed)
tell others to go home and leave ‘your’ country
'cause they migrated at a later stage,
you sound like someone who accuses Tesla
of being born into a backward age.

Mankind has benefited from migration,
both yours and that of those you disallow;
if every man had stayed at home, eight billion
of us would populate Ethiopia now.

‘I see a hunter,’ said one of the does.
‘Don't worry, I'll protect you!’ - With a nod
the buck assured them, ‘If he comes this way
I'll spear him with my antlers like a clod.’

They heard a shot and looked around; the buck
was gone. A fawn said, ‘Typical! He brags
and then runs off, which demonstrates once more:
the biggest mouth has got the fastest legs!’

Afraid to go to sleep because you may
not see the morning of another drear
day for a rightless group in disarray:
a Semite who was born to live in fear.

Afraid to leave the house once you awoke
because while walking to your neighbour's place
you might be shot by any of the folk
considering themselves the master race.

Afraid of open spaces since you could
be maimed or killed, with no one taking heed,
by soldiers or civilians, and they would
not even have to answer for their deed.

Who could be more afraid, I underline,
than Palestinians in Palestine?

When settlers slaughtered Indians
to take their land and place
and, with infected blankets,
tried to snuff out their race,
there were some prudent voices
who called for sympathy,
‘These people mustn't suffer,
why don't you leave them be?’
But, with a scornful simper,
the others would reply,
‘These aren't real people,
not such as you and I.’

When blacks were kept like cattle,
branded and whipped and bred,
their families separated,
lives hanging by a thread,
there were some prudent voices
who called for sympathy,
‘These people mustn't suffer,
why don't you set them free?’ -
‘A person's right to freedom
to them does not apply:
these aren't real people,
not such as you and I.’

When Jews were persecuted
with pogroms everywhere
for their beliefs and customs
and living in despair,
there were some prudent voices
who called for sympathy,
‘These people mustn't suffer,
why wouldn't you agree?’ -
‘They'll never be like others,
no matter how they try:
these aren't real people,
not such as you and I.’

When Israel gets rid of
its natives by design,
massacring children, women
and men in Palestine,
there are some prudent voices
who call for sympathy,
‘These people mustn't suffer,
but you refuse to see!’ -
‘We just defend our country,
that right you can't deny;
these aren't real people,
not such as you and I.’

When children are dismembered
in wombs at others' whims
and writhe in pain and struggle
to hold on to their limbs,
there are some prudent voices
who call for sympathy,
‘These people mustn't suffer,
will you not heed their plea?’
The answer is most likely
a condescending sigh,
‘These aren't real people,
not such as you and I.’

There always will be people,
no matter what they do,
who aren't just as human
as I and maybe you.

All men have been created equal,
but some of them aren't men, you see:
they're pigs, rats, parasites or filthy
stray dogs: they are the enemy!
To slaughter them is but a service
to humankind, you think, because
they are subhumans, apes and therefore
not covered by our human laws.
Don't look at pictures of the victims,
for they may open up your eyes;
just chant the chants and join the chorus:
Dehumanise! Dehumanise!

Their race, religion or their mental
or their developmental stage
disqualify from being human
and justify your bitter rage
against their mere existence, claiming
these animals need to be slain
for being dirty, strange, unwanted
or different, in a big campaign!
Don’t look at pictures of the victims,
for they may open up your eyes;
just chant the chants and join the chorus:
Dehumanise! Dehumanise!

The mongoose pups were hard at play;
they were obnoxious, quick and loud
in the established mongoose way,
and as their father joined the crowd,
one daughter asked him, ‘What the heck
is that strange toy around your neck?’

He smiled and answered, ‘Once I had
a squirrel cornered on a tree,
but someone sneaked up on your dad,
determined to compete with me,
a rattlesnake who hissed to say,
“You better get out of my way!”

‘”Why would I?” I replied, not keen
on backing off. - “You know I am
the forest’s undisputed queen
whom no one challenges. Now scram!”
But I was set to stand my ground
and eat the squirrel I had found.

‘”We reptiles were around before
such pests as your wild kind appeared
who think they have a claim to more
than they deserve which makes them weird,
and all I ask is that you face
reality and learn your place.”

‘She showed her fangs and rattled, but
I didn’t budge. “For your own sake,
don’t test my patience, rabid mutt.
I am the planet’s quickest snake,”
she claimed, “and you should realise
I’ve eaten vermin thrice your size.”

‘And since the squirrel grasped this rare
short opportunity to steal
away from us, we were aware
that one of us would be the meal;
I kept her rattle which I deem
a token of my self-esteem.’

In a little market garden
the asparagus looked down
on a plant with little yellow
flowers and began to frown.

‘Who are you? This is a garden
for just vegetables,’ it sighed.
‘Feeding people is our purpose,
and there’s naught you could provide.’

It continued, ‘Go, get moving!
You are but a worthless fern,
take our soil and take our water
and give nothing in return.’

And the other plant responded,
‘But there’s nowhere else for me.
Why would anybody have to
justify their right to be?’

‘You’re a weed and of no value
to mankind; without a doubt,
when the gardener is making
his next round, he’ll weed you out.’

Soon the gardener inspected
the asparagus with care,
but because it had gone woody,
it was useless for the fair.

So he scrutinised its neighbour,
firmly put his hand around
it and then pulled out the turnip
that had grown beneath the ground.

Atrocities have haunted humans
since time began, as scrolls have shown,
and history describes the leaders
as if they'd acted on their own.

A psycho and the ones infected
with his ideas who set the stage
bear equal guilt to one who murdered
another in a frenzied rage.

Regardless of how many follow
his evil doctrine and his reign,
their terror and abuse could quickly
be stopped by those remaining sane.

The biggest problem aren't fanatics
nor those believing every lie:
the utmost guilty ones are surely
those who know better and stand by.

Mankind may be redeemed, he pondered,
though baulking at the cost,
but when he saw their children buried,
he knew all hope was lost.

All ignorance and hatred vanish
with knowledge, by and by,
and understanding can be fostered -
but not where children die.

And so he left our hopeless planet,
aware it was too late:
a world in which one child is buried
can never be set straight!

For you who never raised a hand
against your fellowmen
there’s no safe place upon the Earth,
just as it was back when.

You’re killed for practice or for sport,
because of what you say,
your colour, culture, age, locale,
for being in the way.

Enriched by decomposing flesh,
the soil of their dispute
lets the unworthy sow and reap
their rich ill-gotten fruit.

Their power, profit or belief
entitles them to kill;
your bones are spread across the world
and keep on spreading still.

The ever-rising flood of blood
on which their schemes rely
eventually will drown the world
which carelessly stood by.

To lie for evermore beneath
the land or sea you’re cursed;
this planet has become your tomb
and is about to burst.

Once the fog will be clearing that clouds human vision,
I have tried to convince my young self in the past,
it is only a matter of time, that's for certain,
before sanity conquers our species at last.

But I'd failed to step back as I watched and consider
that this fog is, as now to believe I'm inclined
(like the rings that can't be abstracted from Saturn),
an integral part of the mind of mankind.

You have been working all your life
to reach your goal, upset
that all your long-continued strife
went unrewarded yet.

And so you reminisce on how
your plans have gone askew,
‘It's useless since my goal is now
entirely out of view.’

The mountaineer who notes your plight
will smilingly declare,
‘It's when the peak is out of sight
I know I'm almost there.’

Regret is the view of the mountain
we decided we wouldn't climb,
the aftertaste of the dinner
we chose not to taste at the time.

When the poisonous sting of a bygone
opportunity burns, never say,
‘I wish I had seized that occasion,’
say instead, ‘I know better today.’

Regret fogs the path to the future
of the person it came to beset;
regret is a waste of the present
which soon you may come to regret.

Who else can still recall the days of yore
when for our research, oftentimes in vain,
we'd comb newspaper archives or remain
in reference libraries to find out more?

We'd order costly volumes at the store
which we could not afford for little gain,
just on the off chance that they might contain
the information we were looking for.

But times have changed: today there is no need
to spend much cash and time on books that might
be relevant; we're fortunate indeed.

We have the Internet all day and night
where information spreads at WiFi speed
and misinformation at the speed of light.

Be not soft with your opinions,
do not whisper what you think;
tell it as it is, don't water
down the truth, and do not shrink.

Those who change the world for better
are not those who hide their views
in the face of opposition
from the mainstream's sheepish queues.

Standing up against injustice
may be frowned upon at first;
standing out may be a hazard,
but it's clearly not the worst.

Even though the herd may shun you
for positions they deplore,
you'll see others stepping forward
who had been afraid before.

Be courageous, for the misfits
of today who speak their mind
are the heroes of tomorrow
and curators of mankind.

Wee-hee! The thought went racing down the axon
and jumped across the spacious recess thanks
to his own impetus, just like a Saxon
who's on a mission to drive out the Franks.

He landed safely on another neuron,
and down its axon once again he slid,
faster than any rollercoaster you're on
when you attend a funfair with your kid.

And with the next synaptic gap approaching,
assisted by a friendly dendrite, he
soon found himself another time encroaching
upon a neuron with tenacity.

And on he raced in one velocious vortex
from cell to cell to cell, all on his own;
his frontal lobe trip in the busy cortex
took him to places he had never known.

Through every obstacle and situation
the thought skilfully managed to persist,
and finally he reached his destination
where he reported, just to be dismissed.

Ants in Ant City have to work all day
to serve their greedy queen who idly lounges
within the nest they built for it; their pay
are scraps of all the fodder that it scrounges
off them; each morning they're assigned to labour,
provided they are faster than their neighbour,
while those without assignment face damnation:
they and their families confront starvation.

The foragers and workers never shirk
but gather food around the town to fatten
the immobile queen who never had to work
but lies and chews on a divan of satin
while soldiers are attacking every charger;
sadly, just like a windigo grows larger
by being fed and hungrier by growing,
there'll be no end to this one's greed nor slowing.

Other than other ants they reproduce
within their caste; the queen says those with ardour
may some fine day (a claim she’d often use)
turn into queens by working more and harder.
Meanwhile its own descendants, growing bolder,
keep thriving with it and, as they grow older,
take over or, by taking one big plunge from
their nest, find other colonies to sponge from.

A worker once lamented with a frown,
‘Why feed that gorging ogre? It assures us
that once it's full, the food will trickle down,
but it won't e'er be full and just up-yours us.
It lives in luxury while we are bleeding:
there must be more to life than work and feeding
the bloody queen,’ he ranted, and thereafter
he heard the city echoing with laughter.

The starving farmer stumbled past
his master's overflowing store;
he reached his mansion on his last
legs and kept knocking at the door.
‘I'm sorry to disturb you,’ he
implored the man he came to meet,
‘but once we pay your tribute, we
ourselves have nothing left to eat.’ -
‘I know exactly how you feel,
but times are bad,’ his lord replied,
still chewing on his lavish meal,
‘yet there's one thing that can be tried.’
So they went down on bended knee
and prayed to the economy.

In a forgotten ghost estate
a man lay on the doorstep of
a barricaded house, a fate
he chose so he'd escape the scoff
of passers-by in town, and when
the owner sauntered past, he said,
‘I have no place to live, I can
not wash myself, and now I dread
the freezing winter which I fear
I mayn't survive.’ The owner frowned
and claimed, ‘I hear you loud and clear,
but there's a way to keep you sound.’
So they went down on bended knee
and prayed to the economy.

A pale tormented father came
into the doctor's office. ‘Please,’
he asked and hung his head in shame,
‘my daughter has a rare disease,
and now she is about to die
because we simply can't afford
the treatment.’ With a heavy sigh
the doctor slowly turned toward
the troubled man. ‘I feel your pain;
wish I could be of help to you
since this must be an awful strain,
but there is one thing we can do.’
So they went down on bended knee
and prayed to the economy.

They did not know on whom the mild
goddess of affluence confers
her gifts; who was not born her child
will never be a child of hers.

Economic growth is mostly driven
by its profiteers as they create
urgent and unwavering demand for
unnecessities that cannot wait.

All its passengers are quiet, fearing
vehicle or driver, or them both,
for there is unlimited space for bodies
in the trunk of economic growth.

When money took the world, the roses
turned grey and hung their heads in shame,
the rats all wrinkled their small noses,
and ticks and leeches rose to fame.

The orchards were cut down discreetly,
the cornfields flattened out, the sound
of happy children hushed completely
and all the huts burnt to the ground.

When money took the world, no colour
was left, no palm or buttercup;
the world became a trifle duller,
the wells were poisoned or dried up.

The starved involuntary partakers
were sampling many different tastes
of dirt, and all the while the makers
of money partied in the wastes.

History is being written,
and the victor, we behold,
hires a scribe who like a smitten
schoolboy does as he is told.

Thus will future generations
learn how right and good prevailed,
unexposed to the narrations
of antagonists who failed.

Where the victor builds his temple
on the ruins left, forsooth,
on the ground which people trample,
in the rubble lies the truth.

The makers of imaginary money
hold us in thrall like puppets on a string,
the value of a human life is measured
in Dollars, just like every other thing;
man is an asset, easily replaced:
Where are you, Spartacus? Make haste!

Technology replaces manual labour;
with less to do, some people would be glad
to share - but firms, to maximise their profits,
make us compete for full-time jobs instead,
holding the individual in distaste:
Where are you, Spartacus? Make haste!

The world could easily be fed; today, though,
some thousands will be drawing their last breath,
like every other day, as hunger victims;
and every year, while millions starve to death,
most of this planet's food is going to waste:
We need you, Spartacus – make haste!

Knowing you're right when everyone is wrong
can be distressing, and it is all right
to voice your disappointment if your plight
is scorned by those with viewpoints just as strong.

You'll feel misunderstood, and before long
you will be overwrought as you invite
the others to see reason, but in spite
of all your efforts they won't sing your song.

Throughout your life you've never been a quitter,
and in despair you lecture and petition
all your opponents as they rant and witter.

And even wrath is venial on your mission,
but if you realise you're growing bitter,
it's time to reconsider your position.

When life keeps throwing boulders in your way
and manages to shock you with unpleasant
surprises every night and every day;

When every obstacle and woe is hurled
at you with barbarous determination,
then ask yourself, ‘Is this the end of the world?’

- If the answer's No, just carry on,
and if the answer's Yes, and there is nothing
that you can do about it, carry on.

When the doubts have all been doubted
and the reservations shared,
the opinions have been shouted
and the victory declared
by the loudest party, smile
as the popinjay repeats
his supreme position while
the philosopher retreats.

Right beside the many people
proud of land and race you'll find
those who say the Earth's their country,
and their people are mankind.

I'm the dubious helper who fettered
your most harrowing memory,
an umbrella for hopes that were shattered
and a shroud for reality.

I replace the unbearable trauma
with a beautiful moment unhad,
so you'll never remember the former
which the latter deposed, which seems dead.

But the monster still lurks in the shadows,
and one day when you stroll through the fair
or enjoy the repose of the meadows,
it will jump at your throat from its lair!

‘Home is never far when you're alive.’ – Maasai Proverb

When you are shipwrecked in the ocean's foam,
lost in the wilderness that you explore,
stuck in a bog twelve thousand miles from home
or in the jungle where the tigers roar,
just keep in mind, as long as you survive,
that home is never far when you're alive.

Those who have shuffled off their mortal coil
will never make it back, no matter how
close they may be to their indigenous soil,
therefore be grateful if the Fates allow
you to continuously seek and strive,
for home is never far when you're alive.

When the souvenirs have faded
and the pictures on the wall,
when the memory is jaded
from our efforts to recall,
when the others who were present
left and therefore cannot share,
we take solace in the pleasant
knowledge we at least were there.

Young Adam saw, approaching Amsterdam,
a mansion and a lady at its gate,
‘Excuse me, ma'am, who owns this fine estate?’
‘Kannietverstaan,’ she answered. - ‘Thank you, ma'am!’

‘How carefree must the life of someone be
who lives in such a mansion,’ Adam thought,
‘and while my own hard efforts come to naught,
this man has more than I will ever see.’

In Amsterdam a stately coach drove by,
and people flanked the road and waved and cheered,
and Adam asked a man with flowing beard,
‘Who’s that?’ - ‘Kannietverstaan,’ was his reply.

‘To be that popular must be superb,
and to be celebrated in the street
by thousands of admirers at one's feet,’
he thought, ‘who push each other off the kerb!'

A few days later in a street that throbbed
with life, a funeral procession passed.
‘Who died?’ he asked under the flag, half-mast.
‘Kannietverstaan,’ the grieving widow sobbed.

‘So death spares no one,’ Adam thought. ‘Life's yarn
is severed when our time has come, and all
his wealth and power which made us look small
cannot revive the great Kannietverstaan.’

He kept on thinking, ‘If we worried less
about the others while we are alive,
we'd have a lot more time and verve to strive
to make the best of what we have, I guess.’

With some tuition he might have discerned
Kan niet verstaan means ‘I can't understand’
but would not have reflected deeply and
would not have learned the lesson that he learned.

Hover here for bonus stanza

(based on an event in the life of Adam Philippe, Comte de Custine, made famous by the short story of Johann Peter Hebbel)

Caught in my trap I found a mouse,
her 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 it; 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 heed,
and then she turned around with ease
and headed for the mead.

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 Gnomes sat at the campfire
and passed the cup around
while smoking the tobacco
their busy wives had found.

‘We are proud men,’ their chieftain
declared, ‘which makes us great!’
With this he nudged his neighbour,
‘What are you proud of, mate?’

The Gnome who sat beside him
just raised the cup and smiled,
‘I'm proud I slew that badger
who tried to eat your child!’

The Gnomes in turn were drinking
the wine their chief supplied
while listing the achievements
that filled their hearts with pride.

‘I'm proud I put up the barrier
that keeps away the mice,
and proud to see those flourish
who ask for my advice.’

‘I'm proud I build the burrows
in which our folk are safe
and all the dams that shelter
our village from the wave.’

‘I'm proud I pick the tubers
that feed our families
and the nutritious mushrooms
I find amongst the trees.’

‘I'm proud that I am writing
the songs you sing (or try)
and all the hymns and ballads
we'll be remembered by.’

The last of them had nothing
to add but raised the cup;
his absence of achievements
could never shut him up.

Waving the flag of Gnomia,
he, with his mouth afoam,
screamed with endearing madness,
‘I'm proud to be a Gnome!’

Different times bring different birds,
different birds sing different songs,
and I might appreciate them
with a different set of ears.
- HEINRICH HEINE, Atta Troll

There are birds that quack or coo or croak
and that teach their little chicks:
Birds don't sing!

There are birds that hide their heads in the sand
and that teach their little chicks:
Birds don't fly!

There are birds that dwell in solitude
and that teach their little chicks:
Birds don't flock!

There are birds that stay throughout the winter
and that teach their little chicks:
Birds don't move!

There are birds that build their nests in trees
and that teach their little chicks:
Birds don't swim!

There are birds that live on fruits and seeds
and that teach their little chicks:
Birds don't kill!

There are birds that sit in lonesome cages
and that teach their little chicks:
Birds aren't free!

When you are defeated by someone you flout,
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 millions!

With every breath he took in life,
a-tic, a-toc, a-tic, a-toc,
he felt a restless beat inside,
the ticking of an inner clock.
When as a child he played alone
or was asleep or having fun,
the clock inside kept telling him,
It must be done, it must be done!

When he grew up to be a man
and worked at fairs or at the dock,
he felt obliged to pay his dues
and tried to satisfy the clock
by keeping time and working fast,
yet all his efforts were outrun
by that device commanding him,
It must be done, it must be done!

The working rhythm took its toll,
and still the clock kept racing on,
so he decided to ignore
its beat, pretending it was gone;
but when he stayed in bed till noon
or lazed inertly in the sun,
the clock inside reminded him,
It must be done, it must be done!

It ticked and ticked as he grew old,
accompanied his dying breath,
and once again it picked up speed
to mark the moment of his death.
And if there is an afterlife,
continuously the clock will run
inside the spirit of a man
who still won't know what's to be done.

Little friend behind the door,
as you strut across the floor,
gently measuring your pace,
I admire your pride and grace.

With a twinkle in your eyes
you take care of midges, flies
and our other tiny friends
whom a weird creator sends.

On your endless legs you sneak
up to them to take a peek;
as your patient playmate waits,
you approach him on all eights.

Furry pal, as soft as wool
and bizarrely beautiful,
you are such a pretty sight,
I could watch you day and night.

When you're where you shouldn't be,
on my hand I'll gingerly
put you where you were before,
little friend behind the door.

See how it glitters in the sun
after all rain and thunder:
a skilful architect has done
his best to shape this wonder.

The cobweb is a dainty thing,
yet tough and indurating,
and creatures travelling on wing
may find it captivating.

Those trapped resist their hidden lord
with rage and apprehension,
tighten the net and pull the cord
to catch their host's attention.

The struggling insects lose their nerve
and soon accept they're beaten;
once paralysed, they will observe
themselves being wrapped and eaten.

This is the web of life for you,
and as you fight and languish,
each move just brings you closer to
the eight-legged god of anguish.

A fencepost stands amidst the fence
where he and all his brothers
connect entirely through barbed wire
like oh so many others.

Keep cows about and people out!
The barbed wire knows its mission.
Over the years it disappears,
being in bad condition.

What matters most is that the post
has lost all interactions;
he now is left alone, bereft
of purpose and connections.

A robin, spent from her ascent,
is desperate for seating;
after her search she comes to perch
upon the fencepost, tweeting.

When Anna Mary had retired,
she grasped the opportunity
to spend a lot of time pursuing
her passion for embroidery.

But soon she suffered from arthritis
which made it painful, and she had
to look for something else; her sister
suggested she should paint instead.

Thus Grandma Moses picked up painting
when she was over seventy-eight;
so when you feel you found your calling,
don't ever think that it's too late.

With Minnie's ninetieth birthday nighing,
the white-haired lady took at last
a closer look at her own humdrum
and largely unexciting past.

She viewed her albums, thinking back to
all those conventional roles she chose:
strict mother, then a gentle granny,
now a great-grandma in odd clothes.

She took the bus into the city
and had her snow-white hair dyed blue,
went to the studio at the corner
and there received her first tattoo.

As if this weren't enough to make her
feel younger and a little hip,
for something even more outrageous
she got a piercing through her lip.

And then she went to her reception,
embarrassing, more than allowed,
her children and her great-grandchildren
while doing her grandchildren proud.

In the Cold War Cafe on campus we met
every night, the straight and the queer,
said hello to our friends, sat down and lit up
and drank beer that tasted of beer.
We discussed the downfall of music,
how Kim Basinger's hair was curled,
the superpowers and all the horrors
if either took over the world.

In the Cold War Cafe on campus we mused;
at our table we didn't stint
on our criticism and talked about
what the press wasn't willing to print.
To escape unemployment, a lot of young men
whom history hadn't taught
volunteered for the army, for they were convinced
there'd be no more wars to be fought.

In the Cold War Cafe on campus we told
the jokes some are posting with glee
anonymously on the net,
because there was no PC.
We laughed at hilarious comedies
that no one dare filming today
since the euphemism language police
would see them get carried away.

In the Cold War Cafe till late at night
we'd smoke and drink and plot,
and our most traumatic experience
was the day John Lennon got shot.
When we learned of injustice anywhere
in the world, which often occurred,
we left our drinks and went out on the street
to let our voices be heard.

We didn't think that the world could change
(except for the better, of course);
the Cold War Cafe was where we'd be
until it closed its doors.
And now that a generation has passed,
there's a different neighbourhood,
and I found a recycling facility
where the Cold War Cafe once stood.

Born nineteen years after the monster
had gone and left its lair in ruins,
living with tens of millions of victims
who never talked about those days,
each time I saw an older woman
or man I wondered where they were.
I felt like screaming (but bit my tongue),
What did you do when you were young?

The priests, bus drivers, tramps and judges,
waitresses, dustmen, politicians,
retired couples on the park bench
or the old teacher at our school
may have appeared quite harmless – still
one never knows for sure, and often
I felt like screaming (but bit my tongue),
What did you do when you were young?

Eight of the villains took their lives,
the remaining ten were executed.
All others got away as servants
who followed orders; in the meantime
they died of (or are dying of)
old age, and it's a shame I can't
believe these people have to face
their judgment yet.

The crimson streaks of morning
stretch low across the skies:
the sun sent his red riders
to tell us he will rise.

Then get your spirit ready
to share, to take and give,
and spare a thought for those ones
who aren't allowed to live.

We know what we do when the waters are gathering round us,
our mind and our conscience are clear when we're tying the knot,
we know what we do when we're finally pulling the trigger,
for, looking at life's opportunities, this is the best.

We won't give you hints or a sign that we want you to help us,
we won't beg for pity or hope to be rescued in time;
would your respect for us grow if you knew what we're up to,
and would you not only pretend that you suddenly care?

You dare to accuse us of causing you heartache and sorrow,
but why should we suffer a lifetime to set you at ease?
This curious meaningless world was not made for our people:
we know we are leaving for good and know certainly why!

She stood at the door of the caravan
and stared at the radiant sky
when he drove to college in his
first convertible.

She sat on a box in the car park
and peeled the potatoes for supper
when his limousine brought him to church
on his wedding day.

She played with her kids in the alley,
dressed in anything others could spare,
when he went to his child's First Communion
in his favourite suit.

She lay in a grave by the roadside,
unmarked, with no headstone nor flowers,
when the mourners followed his hearse
all the way to the churchyard.

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!

A horse tied to a plastic chair has learned
before that being tied to anything
like walls or posts, no matter how it yearned
to walk away, meant any beckoning
attempt to leave is pointless, so it's not
trying to flee but tarries on its spot.

We all are tied to plastic chairs and stand
upon our spots, but some don't realise
toxic connections can be severed and
stay in their place that they so much despise.
Remember that the ties that seem to bind
are but as strong as they are in your mind.

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.

We read of those who had a global
impact on history back then,
many of them considered noble
role models for the rest of man.

Most of these characters, instated
by forces of compassion void,
aren’t famous for what they created
but famous for what they destroyed.

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.

The Farmers of Misfortune
have claimed the land as theirs
from coast to coast for gorging
themselves, their friends and heirs.

The unconsulted natives
whose fields they took away
became their lowly farmhands
who had to work to stay.

Now paying for their dwellings,
they laboured for some cents
with ever-shrinking wages
and ever-growing rents.

The farmers in their wisdom
soon noticed that not all
the farmhands were required
for them to have a ball.

They had to work much longer
and harder, they’d insist,
for less, so soon a quarter
of them could be dismissed.

Unwaged, they had no money
to pay the rent, and so
they quickly were evicted
without a place to go.

And if a farmer finds one
who dared to set up camp
somewhere, they’re free to kick them
out or arrest the tramp.

Misfortune’s cultivation
sustains the ones in pow’r:
it stuffs their greedy bellies
and builds their ivory tow’r.

The farmers feel entitled
by birth or the Divine;
the Farmers of Misfortune
control your world and mine.

The king's men visit every day
and take our wine and bread,
our water and our meat away:
the lords have to be fed.

‘A happy lord has happy serfs,’
they tell each man and child;
our lords are happy, but we serfs
have never even smiled.

And so we went to see the king,
appealing at the gates
to give us what is ours and bring
some food back to our plates.

He scrutinised our rags, ‘I see
where you are coming from,
but it is not that simple; we
must show a bit aplomb.

‘I'm sure you think your lords are bored
and idle; that's not so,
for there is more to being a lord
than you will ever know.

‘They gave you work; with due respect,
demanding more is rude,
and they can certainly expect
a bit of gratitude.

‘You know you ought to feed your lords
who sit around the spit,
and he's a thief who eats or hoards
the tiniest little bit.

‘But once your lords have had their fill,
which will be soon, perhaps,
round overloaded spits you will
be eating golden scraps.

‘The more they have, the less they need,
but if you're taking back
what's theirs, the noose of your own greed
will tighten round your neck!’

And so we starve from day to day
and watch disgustedly
our masters' barbarous display
of greed and gluttony.

They stuff their face with food galore
all day and all night long -
‘They cannot possibly eat more,’
we think; they prove us wrong.

They eat until their stomachs split
while watching us collapse
as we still kneel around their spit
and wait for golden scraps.

The fortunate gather in the banquet hall
of privilege in which the wide and tall
window of opportunity grants views
across a country with a million hues,
and many a hopeful youngster oversees
the boundless world of possibilities
while common people are, with gnashing teeth,
stuck in the murky basement underneath.

Promises. The surefire practice
to obtain without committing,
chasing dewdrops like a cactus
in the sun remains the fool.
But I shall claim what's mine now, health permitting:
I want my forty acres and the mule!

Where the futures cast their shadows
though there is no light, they take us
captive in what should be meadows,
and the other captives drool,
‘Let us be patient, they will not forsake us.’
I want my forty acres and the mule!

When at last the doubting Thomas
was proved right again and dust is
settling on another promise
where the promise masters rule,
I'll stand before the king and call for justice,
I want my forty acres and the mule!

When we die as holy rollers
with the promise as the centre
of our being, they'll console us,
‘We have failed you in the school
of life, but once you leave this world, you'll enter
a world with forty acres and a mule.’

Once buffalo roamed through the plains
who grazed there, peacefully
living amongst their families
as far as one could see.
Those herds, no matter how we try,
will not be seen again:
I hope God kept a backup world
when he created man.

The forests teemed with many birds
of every shape and size
who with their colours and their voice
delighted ears and eyes.
Their songs, no matter how we try,
will not be heard again:
I hope God kept a backup world
when he created man.

The beauty of this planet is
a pleasure of the past,
and we are told that on this Earth
nothing is meant to last.
But if indeed there's this divine
creator's master plan,
I'm sure he kept a backup world
when he created man.

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 the waist each 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'd called
the police earlier on. I once again
tried to sneak out of there 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.

Grounded in the bed of reason,
moved by strong but futile love
for mankind, we sense the turmoil
of the busy world above.
When the angry storm clouds gather
and the waves pile high and break,
we will hardly shift positions,
like a pebble in the lake.
We will hardly shift positions,
like a pebble in the lake.

Gently swayed beneath the surface,
safely resting in the sand,
we stay calm through the tornado
we don't care to understand.
When amidst the rolling thunder
all the Earth's foundations quake,
we await the end of madness
like a pebble in the lake.
We await the end of madness
like a pebble in the lake.

Belovèd Brothers of the Knowing Heart,
we have gathered on this summit,
not at a certain time, not in a particular place,
but in all parts of the Earth
and every era mankind has seen and will see,
to tell the world who we are!

We're a handful of new creations,
a whim of Nature, so to speak,
an experiment; and as Nature dismisses everything
that is not able to survive,
we'll have to fight, or we will be exterminated!

We have no leader apart from our spirit,
we have no followers apart from our mind,
and we are guided by determined will and intransigent love!

Whereas we strive for freedom, we're aware
that freedom is brought forth by life:
a dead man can't be free, no matter what they say -
therefore we value life at any stage,
opposed to the majority who doesn't,
who takes the life of others for whichever reason,
for from our own experience we know:
anybody could become one of us!

We will take an eye for an eye, and not two;
we will take a tooth for a tooth, not a jaw.
If our neighbour tries to steal our corn, we'll steal his;
if our neighbour tries to kill us, we'll kill him.

We have to protect life from those who take it,
but yet the only ones who have the right to take theirs
are their victims. Remember always:
anybody could become one of us!

We will pick up a gun and rise against oppressors -
not for a country or a nation,
not for the government or bourgeoisie,
but for ourselves and the ones we love!
We take the right to destroy any oppressor
with all his executives
to gain and defend our freedom!

We are frugal with our thunderbolts! Why should we strike
somebody down who in a few decades will be forgotten,
if with this very thunderbolt we could disrupt
a whole millennium of decadence?

How could he feel the earth beneath his feet
who doesn't know the Gospel according to Philotes,
who never worshipped himself in the Temple of Beauty,
who never saved a life and felt sorry for it,
who never went home when it wasn't there?

We've seen the gods, all dressed in women's clothes,
we've quaffed the cup of humankind,
we've grasped the spirit of the world in naked flesh,
and we've deflowered every claim for truth!

We feel no hatred towards the servile masses,
those carnivores in flesh and herbivores in mind,
just as the lone wolf feels no hatred towards the pack;
we only know our place is somewhere else,
and so we look upon them with love and pity
and sometimes jealousy. But still we know:
anybody could become one of us!

Afraid of thoughts they could not handle
as they'd destroy the pillars of their assembly hall,
they close their doors to life;
instead of flying on the wings of passion,
they lift their clubs against each other and enrol in
Satan's it-hued teatime force.

They call themselves human, but still there is
too much armpit-scratching and banana-throwing
to distinguish them from their fathers.
We know the advantages of their frowzy homeliness and common enmities.
It's easier to follow than to question.
It's easier to lead than to answer.

One day we'll take over, or we'll be gone,
an evolved species or a deserted freak.
We're only a handful, maybe not fit for survival -
what are the lion's chances against a pack of hyenas?
Yet we will stay in our place and not yield,
nobly succeeding or nobly perishing
with forbearing pride, for we are still aware:
anybody could become one of them!

White man, the million trees that fed
a people for a thousand years,
the forest of their life is dead
since you have claimed it for your peers;
you have completed your grand theft,
chopped the last tree for lumber, not
forgetting its last fruit and left
a desert in its place. This spot
will feed its people nevermore;
now they come knocking at your door
for help to get them back on track:
don't give them alms! Just pay them back.

Not only did you take their few
resources like their food and trees,
you even took their people, too!
Abducted from their families,
the slaves were forced to work and breed
like cattle to create your vast
fortunes, and once these men were freed,
you left them penniless. The past,
you claim, once dealt with, counts no more;
now they come knocking at your door
for help to get them back on track:
don't give them alms! Just pay them back.

You rob the land, the gold, the oil,
the coal, all goods of any worth
from every place your hands can soil,
from every country on this Earth,
then point at those whom you deprive
of wealth and dignity and say,
I'll loan you what I robbed, but strive
to pay your interest every day!
With nothing left, they pay no more,
and now they're knocking at your door
for help to get them back on track:
don't give them alms! Just pay them back.

And you who owe the white man naught
except the finger, when at last
all debts are settled (what a thought!)
you'll live in comfort, and the past
will seem a terrifying trial
rewarded by eternal bliss,
by growing wealth and fortune while
the white man thirsts and starves since his
‘developed countries’ are no more;
he will come knocking at your door
for help to get him back on track:
don't give him alms! Don't let him back!

Evolution works through constant changes,
crossing creatures of each type and race:
any species that refused to mingle
disappeared from Earth without a trace.

Ancient royal families were staying
to themselves and married their own kind:
growing weaker by the generation,
all their lines eventually declined.

Nature is a permanent creator
and improves its creatures all the time.
Racism is incest; if continued,
man will be extinct before his prime.

The cave is still there and the paintings within,
the seeds they consumed and the tools that they used,
the bones of their prey and the stones on their graves;
the river, the river is rolling.

Their images, sealed by the skin of the earth,
will always be lifelessly lying between
the mountains of skulls from the wars of their gods;
the river, the river is rolling.

The smoke disappeared and the chimney decays,
the cross falls apart and the church bells are mute,
the houses deserted and covered with weeds;
the river, the river is rolling.

In better days the Bearded People
lived happily in the green fields of Harmony Hill,
and dancingly, lovingly, drinkingly, fightingly passing
their days, they thought of no evil.

But, gazing with envy upon their rich meadows and orchards,
watching their harvest being too full to be gathered,
the Shaved People assembled one day at the bottom
of Harmony Hill and decided to conquer the land.

They invaded the hill with their army at night
and slaughtered the children, the men and the women in their beds:
the few who survived had to serve the Shaved People,
and while the invaders were selling their fruits to the neighbours,
they starved to death.

There was food for the Shaved People - not for the Bearded.
There were rights for the Shaved People - not for the Bearded.

For aeons they slaughtered each other:
the Shaved killed the Bearded to strengthen their position,
the Bearded killed the Shaved to free their country.
They massacred men and women and children
as long as their facewear made them an enemy.

One day, at the top of Harmony Hill, their leaders
met face to face and, lifting their spears to start the battle,
accused one another with voices that shrieked with excitement.
'We've lived on this hill ever since; we were happy
until you invaded our country and butchered our people,
until you enslaved us and stole all our wealth from this land!
Go home now and leave us in peace, or we'll fight you
until your race is exterminated or ours!' -
'We did not invade this hill,' screamed the other,
'we were born, we were bred on Harmony Hill:
there's no other home that we could or we would ever go to.
Don't blame the Shaved People for the deeds of their fathers;
they may have brought us here by their conquest,
but Harmony Hill is our home, and it always will be!'
They looked closely into each other's eyes
and straightened and hesitated and trembled
and eventually lowered their spears.
'But what can we do?' they sadly said to each other,
'as long as we've different facewears, the war will go on!' -
'But why should we have different facewears at all?
If we all wore moustaches, we'd all be the same!'
So the Shaved and the Bearded People laid down their weapons
and grew moustaches.

The next generations will still talk about the feast
that followed on Harmony Hill:
Moustached People sharing their wine and their fruits and their lives,
not asking the previous facewear of any brother
sitting beside them!

- But in hidden holes in the ground of Harmony Hill,
anxiously lurking like rats on the pounce,
there are Shaved People still and Bearded People, armed to their teeth,
waiting for their time to come!

You sing as once Tyrtaeus did
with courage most sublime
but poorly chose your audience
and poorlier your time.

They listen to your crafty verse
whose hearts you took by storm
to praise your thoughts’ nobility
and mastery of the form.

They toast you with a glass of wine
which soon again they’ll fill,
performing all your battle hymns
with voices loud and shrill.

The servant sings a freedom song
at night when glasses clink;
it stimulates digestion and
adds flavour to the drink.

(Translation of Heinrich Heine's An einen politischen Dichter)

Standing at the bar, I listened
to their talk of revolution,
and their sweaty faces glistened
as they said, 'The castes remain -
our weapons aim at every institution
that keeps the slave in bonds without the chain!'

'Bring the government of neighbours;
we don't want a lord or master!' -
'And the land on which one labours
and the harvest must be his!' -
'Those overseers who tell us to work faster
don't value life and freedom as it is!' -

'They allege we have no morals,
being used to their deflation.' -
'Till the gallows or the laurels
we will fight for anarchy,'
their leader reassured his congregation,
'for every man and woman shall be free!'

Soon their pint glasses turned shallow,
so he raised his arm, and staring
at the stump, I heard him bellow,
'One more round for all my friends!'
I had a closer look as they kept swearing
and realised that none of them had hands.

We gazed at the sea and debated,
as they burnt our town to the ground,
the beauty of God's creation
in everything around.

We basked in the sun that the Maker
made to bring light and life to this Earth
as they butchered our friends in their houses,
looting anything of any worth.

When they poisoned our water and cattle
and the others prepared for the worst,
we sat and admired the sunset,
and now we hunger and thirst.

Firstly, there is the working class:
with every building,
street, bridge and fountain
the future will remember.

Secondly, there's the artist's class:
with every painting,
song, film and poem
the future will remember.

And then we have the ruling class:
taking our money,
spending our money,
it soon will be forgotten.

The Sun of Varosha smiled brightly
on the vibrant small seaside resort
with its toffs who were taking life lightly
when Attila invaded the port.

The Sun of Varosha stood silent
when tranquillity came to a halt
as Darkness assembled her violent
brigades and prepared for assault.

When things couldn't get any posher,
the vacations of women and men
were cut short, and the Sun of Varosha
won't shine on its beaches again.

The mustard fields of Gaza
lie waste, burnt to the ground,
but deep beneath the surface
the roots can still be found.

Come spring, their shiny flowers
will face the sun once more,
and little girls will pick them
just like they did before.

They'll always be returning
with constancy that yields
joy to the playful children
in Gaza's mustard fields.

For many centuries the olive tree
fed Palestine. - No longer, it appears,
because a foreign force maliciously
limits their access to their fields and sneers.

Illegal settlers trespass on their land
to burn, uproot or to chop down their trees
unchallengedly, like a marauding band
of Orcs, and brag about their spoiling sprees.

They know no law, and many times you will
observe the army standing by as droves
of settlers scare, attack and often kill
the harvesters in their own olive groves.

That's why, with trees and planters in decline,
there is no olive branch in Palestine.

Hans Island is a barren rock which lies
amidst the hostile Arctic Ocean, far
from any human bustle, yet it is
claimed by both Denmark and by Canada.

Canadian troops take down the Danish flag
and hoist their own before they are away,
leaving some whisky bottles with the note,
‘Welcome to Canada! Enjoy your stay.’

The Danish troops take down the Maple Leaf
and hoist the Danish flag without delay,
leaving schnapps bottles with the friendly note,
‘Welcome to Denmark! Have a pleasant day.’

No casualties upon the bottlefield
call for more blood to flow, and all the while
no one gets hurt, no buildings are destroyed,
and foreigners are welcomed to the isle.

So here's to Denmark and to Canada
who found a cultured way to disagree
and civilised the handling of disputes:
three cheers, for this is war as war should be!

Risen! He has risen who has slept so long,
risen from the deepest vaults where he grew strong,
taller and unrecognised you see him stand
in the twilight, crushing the moon with pitch-black hand.

In the evening noise of cities it spells doom,
frost and shadows of a foreign darkness loom.
Bustling markets freeze, and their excitement grows
silent. And they turn around. And no one knows.

On the streets it taps their shoulders in the gale.
Questions. And no answers. And a face grows pale.
In the distance there's a shiv'ring knell's faint cry,
beards quake on their pointed chins. They wonder why.

On the mountains he performs a dance at night,
shouting, ‘Warriors, get ready for the fight!’
And it echoes as he's swinging his black head
with the chain of thousand skulls from valiant dead.

Tower-like he stamps the embers in the mud,
where the day has fled the rivers turn to blood.
Corpses without number stretch across the reeds
where the birds of death have whitened out their deeds.

Over ramparts in blue flames he stands and reigns,
over sounds of clashing weapons in black lanes,
over gates across which guards and watchmen lie,
over bridges buckling from the dead piled high.

Chasing fire throughout the night, he plans his schemes,
this red hound with wild snouts' terrifying screams.
From the darkness springs night's planet, black and grim,
fierce volcanoes there illuminate its brim.

Thousand scarlet stocking caps lie scattered wide,
flick'ring on the gloomy plains where hopes subside.
And what's on the streets, he sweeps into the pyre
as he feeds the flames and stokes the raging fire.

And the flames devour each forest in their path,
yellow bats claw into leaves with jagged wrath.
Like a charcoal burner with his pole he beats
treetops so the fire burns brighter for more feats.

In the yellow smoke a city disappeared,
threw itself straight into the abyss it feared.
But colossally over glowing ruins stands
he who twists his torch three times in skies all dense,

Over the reflection of the storm-torn clouds,
the dead darkness' icy wastelands and its shrouds,
so the blaze can scorch the night with breath aglow,
pouring brimstone on Gomorrah down below.

(Translation of Georg Heym's Der Krieg)

So I have to leave my friends and loved ones
to kill my brothers and sisters
who happen to live under the jurisdiction
of another government,
and it's unlikely that I'll ever return.

In a few years
one of the parties will hoist the white flag
over our graves.

And those who sent me out to die
will meet at a marble table,
sign a paper and
shake hands.

Injustice is a curse, and few we know are worse:
but holding the descendants responsible, I trust, is
a new injustice, and we’ve seen too many a hearse
because some people are unjust in seeking justice.

No dead man ever rose, nor does a death dry tears:
to take to violence and, in order to increase it,
revenge what someone’s father has done to theirs appears
to make no sense at all, and those with sense will cease it.

Where sons refuse to fight, no feud can ever last:
until the wound has healed, the noticeable suture
reminds us that revenge is taking care of the past
and reconciliation is taking care of the future.

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.

They're sitting at the table
with empty heart and mind,
not really there, unable
to struggle or to find.
There's many a silent moocher
with his eyes fixed on his drink
and his back turned towards the future
who only drinks to think.

And as he keeps on drinking
to the state of mind he's in,
he also keeps on thinking
of the life that should have been.
And it's here they drink their potions
to forget their hopes and fears
with a fistful of emotions
and a pocketful of tears.

The piano man keeps playing
with poignancy and phlegm,
and sure it goes without saying
that he is one of them.
The barman never mentions
a family or wife;
some bet their meagre pensions
on whether he's a life.

And when he ceases trading
and dims the gloomy light,
they leave and soon are fading
in the dreaded peace of night.
And it's here they drink their potions
to forget their hopes and fears
with a fistful of emotions
and a pocketful of tears.

When the bustle and noise of the city around
pierce my mind with their beat and monotonous sound
and the voice in my head sings her ominous tunes,
I retire from the town to the peace of the dunes.

Where the buttercups melt in the sun, where the skies
and the bluebells that silently ring in my eyes
spread the sound of a higher serenity,
I lie down to the song of our lady the sea.

For pacific souls in Atlantic domains
this gate to the other realm still remains:
in the sun's gentle light and at night the pale moon's,
there is nothing on Earth like the peace of the dunes.

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.

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!

Why shouldn't God play dice? How does he pass
the idle hours in between creations
after his angels went to sleep or work
and he desires some adult entertainment?

Why shouldn't God play dice? It is a vice
to gamble when relying on the outcome,
but here's a man who couldn't lose at all –
and if he did, he'd have no trouble paying.

Why shouldn't God play dice? Has he no right
to improvise whenever he's creating,
can he not do whate'er he wants to do
without requiring scientists' approval?

Mankind has never been alone:
the Earth, its creatures and its sod
were here before us, and we own
no world, no country and no clod.

What happened prior to our birth
we do not know, we're unaware
of matters elsewhere on this Earth:
most of the time we were not there.

For places we're not in today
as well as for the past we must
rely, since there's no other way,
on sources we decide to trust.

Despite scenarios galore,
we'll never know what lies ahead
and what the future holds in store:
most of the time we will be dead.

Our knowledge of the world we're in
has barely scratched the surface, nor
have we explored its deeper skin
and layers, let alone its core.

Besides, the globe's a tiny speck
within the Milky Way which sees
itself as nothing but a fleck
amongst billions of galaxies.

In that brief span for which we're hurled
into existence, this short stroll,
we see a snapshot of the world:
how could we understand the whole?

They returned with their horses and carts,
their caravans, children and pets,
bringing songs, fortune telling and arts
to all those who are caught in the nets
of unchange where a change is required
and necessities cannot be seen:
the Gypsies, a folk that inspired
our young minds, camped on Gypsy's Green.
We were told not to go, but at night
we watched our parents sneak out,
have their fortunes read and delight
in their music while dancing about.
Our desire for things foreign and strange
brought the Gypsies on whom we were keen,
a people refusing to change,
to the oak trees on Gypsy's Green.

And after they'd left, we all used
to pretend, as well as we could,
we were travelling people and mused
on the meaning of life, and we would
sing their songs, play their games and read palms
just like the old women we've seen
and impose on each other for alms
on the patches of Gypsy's Green.
We would turn the toy barrows we had
into caravans housing us all,
and each night when we went to bed
fall asleep as we answered their call.
We'd all feel the desire burn
and await with the most serene
excitement the Gypsies' return
to the oak trees on Gypsy's Green.

When the Gypsies had fled, they were cut
and replaced by a tall padlocked gate,
and the windows and doors are nailed shut
of an unfinished ghost estate,
and all we can hear is the sound
of the wind and the pitiful lark
on the concrete walls that surround
what they now call Fugger's Park.
There's no sign of life in the place
that once seemed so cheerful and free
but now shows a desolate face;
yet, closing our eyes, we still see
a livelier spirit that streams
through the modern deserted scene,
for only in poems and dreams
we revisit Gypsy's Green.

Miss Fortune is so nice and meek,
but she is always on her way -
she'll kiss you softly on the cheek
to leave again and say, 'Good day'.

Misfortune on the other hand
will rest against her breast your head:
she'll see in you her closest friend,
sit down and knit beside your bed.

(Translation of Heinrich Heine's Lamentationen)

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 where Bram Stoker
conceived his Dracula
have gone; today the fearful 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 who many years ago
saw Persia's rise and fall,
and, watching them, I'm glad to know
they haven't changed at all.

Life is the garden of the brain,
and we should tend it while it's ours
and not waste time by praying for rain
or doing headcounts of the flow'rs.

Let's make the best of what is there
and sow the plants we want to see,
enjoy its challenges and share
its fruits in friendly company.

And like all those who lived before
have planted trees you now see grow,
make sure to plant one tree or more
for future dwellers you don't know.

Some perfect moments can be had,
but be aware that they won't stay
except in memory: be glad,
live long and prosper while you may!

(Inspired by Leonard Nimoy’s last tweet)

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.’

Today the ancient tree of life was felled
to fuel the forge of profit for one day;
the tree of knowledge in whose shade we dwelled
is next, and after that - well, who can say?

Right at the busy bypass outside our ominous city gates
our therapeutic centre stands as an eyesore that everyone hates.
It's so enormous a complex, all of our shopping malls would fit in,
when you reach breaking point, they'll make you madder than you've ever been.
Hey, hey, hey, I was the glorious horseman, hey, hey, hey, I was a son of this town,
hey, hey, hey, I was too high up the stairway, then I went down, yeah, then I went down.

On my way down to the clinic I saw the city lights one last time,
burning my eyes like electric fire! I felt alone with a mountain to climb.
Hey, hey, hey, I was the glorious horseman, hey, hey, hey, I was a son of this town,
hey, hey, hey, I was too high up the stairway, but then I went down, yeah, then I went down.

Lights and emergency signals, psychoanalysis, group time and force,
new therapeutic centres will never fight the actual cause.
Hey, hey, hey, I was the glorious horseman, hey, hey, hey, I was a son of this town,
hey, hey, hey, I was too high up the stairway, but then I went down, yeah, then I went down.

(Translation of Joachim Witt's Goldener Reiter)

Joachim Witt and Frank L. Ludwig

As soon as they’d managed to quell our inherent
commitment to sensibility’s call,
the hiders of sense have concealed the apparent
and sell us the emperor’s clothes for the ball.

What remains of our sanity will be subjected
to the whip of community, silencing sooth,
until we concede hiders must be protected
from challenging facts and the beaten truth.

With our reason and judgment sedated severely,
not permitted to open our eyes while awake,
we encourage the hiders to leave us with merely
one crumb they are calling our piece of the cake.

When the birches turn red in November
and the salmon are ceasing to leap
and the streams fill with rain from the mountains,
it is time for all creatures to sleep.

To escape both the cold and the darkness,
man and beast close their eyes to the world,
for the world now is dreaming and waiting
for the creatures that Nature has furled.

And when colour returns to the forests
and the salmon are seen in the lake
and the daffodils herald life's triumph,
we should think about whether to wake.

Like a windswept old tree in the wilderness,
with his scraggy long arms in the sky,
with his bark a bazaar for the elements
and his roots undisclosed to the eye,

Who was guarding his plain throughout centuries
when our forefathers crawled from the caves
and established the rule of humanity
and first put the dead into graves,

We all stand in this world with our loneliness
for some decades with nothing to do,
to be cut with a chainsaw in wintertime,
and to burn for an hour or two.

Civilisation is a euphemism
for status quo, and it has long been used
to hinder progress, subjugate the masses
and keep the privileged elite amused.

Civilisation means elimination
of cultures and of peoples in plain view;
it helps suppress minorities and even
majorities to serve the chosen few.

Professing to preserve the overrated
'character' of one's own society,
any attempts at change are harshly dealt with
and those who try declared the enemy.

As someone valuing mankind's potential
beneath civilisation, be advised
that I consider it far more important
to be progressive than be civilised.

Recovery is such a spurious expression,
used by the ones in power with astute aplomb:
the few ne’er had afflictions to recover from,
and for the many it’ll always be recession.

Man is a camel. Drivers pack
it like it cannot tire;
the straw that'll break the camel's back
will fuel a global fire.

The world is put on hold. We worry
and live in fear, abide
restrictions, cuts and isolation,
afraid to step outside.

We do not know how long this crisis
will last as it unfolds,
nor how to pay our bills and grocer,
nor what the future holds.

When this has passed and the survivors
emerge from the abyss,
we should remember there are billions
who live their lives like this.

In the basement of capitalism
we’re hidden away from sight,
enslaved, imprisoned and starving,
crammed together all day and all night.

We’re screaming, but nobody answers,
though some people upstairs are aware,
and whenever a resident enters,
they look through us as if we weren’t there.

Upstairs, with the goods they have stolen,
the lords of the mansion carouse
as we dream of a chance to escape it,
break free and set fire to the house.

It all began when... well, nobody knows
just when it started, but the dreadful close
always seemed near for some millennia
and always will as long as humans star
in Earth’s experimental drama with
a plot inspired and backed by many a myth,
a script that isn’t finished and a stage
without a curtain. The antagonists rage
against each other and in turn destroy
each other’s people though they still enjoy
their nemeses’ companionship when they
discuss an armistice or peace that may
never take place; and if it does, a new
archenemy will, as they always do,
show up around the corner. All the piles
of compostable bodies without aisles
between are good for business, we’re assured,
and that’s what makes worthwhile the pain endured.
We are disposable extras in a play
we didn’t choose, and we don’t have a say
in what our part is; neither do we know
how long it is and when we’ll have to go.
We often hear, as all our hopes disperse,
one chorus chanting, ‘Now it can’t get worse,’
the other chorus chanting, ‘It’s the end!’
aware that both are wrong. And as we fend
for both ourselves and ours, we know quite well
of people who experience the hell
of fire and brimstone every single day,
and those who flee are being sent away
from every other place. Some of us trust
the ancient voices that repeat we must
continue fighting enemies as long
as they exist, but that our side is strong -
just one more carpet bombing, one more race
to be eliminated from the face
of the Earth, and afterwards we will be done:
mankind will live in concord once we’ve won.
The road to victory and peace, we’re told,
is almost travelled, and that we should hold
out just a little longer and not doubt;
that road, however, is a roundabout.
Every few decades Sanity, quite shy,
pops up his head amidst the daisies by
the arid roadside just before a grim
column of heavy tanks rolls over him.
Most extras play their parts as ordered, yet
more and more minor actors on the set
call out for a protagonist to save
the incoherent play and those who crave
a sane new world instead of the eclipse
of man; until that time, the Apocalypse
is ongoing.

So we have filled and then subdued the Earth,
as we were ordered. Now she lies defeated,
a belt of poison wrapped around her girth,
breathing her last; the challenge is completed.

Was she a worthy opponent? Did she dare
put up a fight, defending her four corners?
Will she be missed? Does anybody care?
And at her grave, will there be any mourners?

We stand in triumph with our muscles flexed:
so we have now subdued the Earth. Who’s next?

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 sky light in her wanting dress,
rustling with the birches, rustling slightly, rustling.

Once our life decembered, we'll have found our spot:
some will be remembered, some will be forgot,
fading with the sunset, fading gently, fading.

The dying trade was weak, her servants silent,
but only those who sang her death song died;
the others scorn the joys these realms provide
and hope for others on another island.

Instead of Beauty they all worship Duty,
and men apologise for being there,
grim raven-collared toads croak everywhere,
but there's no minstrel who would sing of Beauty.

Beauty is gone long since - the sickly pigeon
survived the graceful swan, as now we know;
who would have thought a hundred years ago
that Poetry would die before Religion?

Since man exists all children play together,
but soon, encouraged by their 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 that, 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 anymore.

The chiefs that won and came to rule a county
soon lost to 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 reaped 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.

When ignorance ascended
the truth went deaf and dumb;
the days of silence are over,
the time to scream has come!

With our minds perpetually battered
and our brains perpetually numb
the days of silence are over,
the time to scream has come!

The unluckiest fight for survival
while the happiest still are glum;
the days of silence are over,
the time to scream has come!

And ignorance now leads the masses
which once again march to her drum;
the days of silence are over,
the time to scream has come!

Mankind has elected a nightmare
that vowed to fulfil their dream.
There’s no time left now for silence;
the time has come to scream!

Pointing out our views are strong
does not prove our views are wrong.

To follow in my footsteps, you'll have to go ahead:
you cannot follow me if you follow me.