Song of Anti-Prayer
Nothing to do with hell or graveyard. Of course
There was not one flower wreath and, as concerns words of condolence,
No tears
Like a fighter who committed a past mistake
Parting from ideas and dreams that came successively
You died just to live in bewilderment
In 1953 you
Were a fighter. In 1955 you’re now
A vagrant
To throw him away and take this or
To throw this away and take him
Turning back on the world’s commandment, you
Threw him and this away both
Your heavily drooping eyelids
Are filled up with the tears of an utterly different world
In your thoroughly exhausted hands and feet
A lead-like past creaks
The city is a city you dreamed of
To spray away waste oil on the grass
Your stumbling shadow
Comes out of a small side door and that is
Your appearance of yearning
Suspicions are in the transparent sky
Peace still wails in agony now
With your heart and that of a girl whom you haven’t encountered yet
In the testament without flower decoration
In values that won’t be further lowered
If you’re high only on top of your head,
The people look like a glumly silent black lump
If you’re low only at the tip of your feet
The people are anxious like a tower you look up
Those who fought were chased after and
Vanished one by one into the din and bustle of the capital
Showing their dilapidated backs
Like wilderness that blooms no flower, the people
Send you off
You look down on them and
They throw you away
You don’t know
What parting means but
You know that
An assassin passed this way and then
A revolutionary
And now a shabby dream smeared in shame
Look
In-between each space in the tube-like wind an illusory
Road and city continue
Like a fate in a single form you
Shoulder the souls of people tired from cowering
And inhabit that city
The city lies approximately at the end of the fought-over commandment
The tribal elder is a loser and so are the boarders
Except for the climate full of suspicions
And irresistible rage
Things that are too quiet
Pass by where you are
If a person says
I can’t believe in the crowd or the girl
You could invite him
If a person proclaims
Rebellion and dream are both pointless
You could say that this city is different
If a wounded fighter says
Life is pointless and death intimate
That is your own shadow
But when a dirty-looking hunger is
Carried from a city far away
Your fate shall be determined
That is when the city will shine in darkness
The world is raising its prayer, intoning
The poor are not loved by peace
But must love peace.
|
|
Bookmark/Search this post with:
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
