Song of a Weary Warrior

 
My head was shriveling, my rotting feet reeked of decay.
Why has it come so far? What happens next?
A filthy, bloody, muck-soaked road runs off in a thousand directions.
Which way, exactly? Right or left? Forward or back?
Keep searching. You'll see—you can't even find yourself anymore.
Each of your cells will scream separately,
your lungs will tear and bleed, and then you'll think:
trees, stones, and birds—at day's end, all of it useless!


When the masters of hairy dogs
dress up sharp, carefully hiding their great black wings,
and sit down in five-star restaurants
to feast on human flesh in the red glow of evening,
I see in the mirror
my mind withering,
my heart screaming its throat raw,
I am afraid.


Fear in every corner of the room,
squirrels peering out with chattering whispers,
I feel the rhythm of contraction and expansion in my chest,
shadow-demons sit on the front veranda.
My strength lies in light, yet there are no lamps anywhere...
Sitting like this, I had to digest even more droning nonsense.


Suddenly I burst into a whistle, its sound spread all the way to the courthouse!
New anti-terror forces sit in every corner today.
Their bloodshot eyes gleam, their talk is polished,
some of them once found happiness behind rosebushes, they say.
Their innocent pens are actually quite cunning,
and every night they can be seen getting vocal. That's their whole record.


When the cells of my brain climb the stairs and look down,
I notice madness in them, and find no compassion.
Only sometimes a small,
bewildering prayer comes to me—
O God! Somehow give me a pair of clear blue eyes
that can swallow pain.


Fire burns in the jungle behind my forehead,
evening light falls in the meteor's thunderous voice,
that heat spreads through my veins into my blood.
Through the keyboard's alleyway I said the day before yesterday,
some unbearable memories always cry out for help.
A hideous rain sweeps away the crooked trees,
crushes them, leaves behind frightened question marks.
........Ah, today I'm alive only because of this keyboard!


A terrified man's voice shouts out: Will there be fire?
I closed my eyes and answered with a double scream,
In these hard times, who keeps fire? Who comes to put it out?
A skinny boy stands wrapped in a pale purple shirt.
Seeing him, it struck me—I know this one!
Though I knew him, I'd never recognized his tears before.
Those we know—we don't know their tears.
So I happily assumed he'd wanted fire to light a cigarette.


The weary mules had fallen asleep walking the green road.
Some old flutes sing in the evening breeze,
the kid goats don't leap, they cry. A few dark years have passed
playing wrong notes of love on the violin,
praising moonlight while walking in the deep night,
washing memories in the waterfall that flows from the heart.


Then, far from night's body, above the mosses, someone
deranged and confined wanted to conquer the world with ridiculous songs.
His voice was cursed, madness rose like a flood in his outstretched arms,
his confused mind hurled challenges at everyone—
I am god, the rest of you are mad!
I could only say this much, gently:
O great soul! These songs are the deepest music of terrible times.


Then my fingers shake matchsticks,
light candles, embrace the skulls of my dead ancestors.
When I bury myself, I confess as a criminal priest:
Yes, death's grief has surrounded me though hell's curse had encircled me.