zbigniew

In Uncategorized on 29 November 2008 with no comments

this is a page con­tain­ing the poetry of zbig­niew her­bert, the pol­ish poet born in warsaw in 1924. her­bert was a res­ist­ance fighter dur­ing the second world war and is one of the most trans­lated post-war pol­ish writers. her­berts died in 1998 and the pol­ish gov­ern­ment declared the year 2008 to be the year of ‘zbig­niew her­bert’, in recog­ni­tion of his con­tri­bu­tion to pol­ish literature.

read more about zbig­niew her­bert on wiki­pe­dia.

Episode in a library

A blonde girl is bent over a poem. With a pen­cil sharp as a
lan­cet she trans­fers the words to a blank page and changes
them into strokes, accents caesuras. The lament of a fallen
poet now looks like a sala­man­der eaten awy by ants.
When we car­ried him away under machine-gun fire, I
believed that his still warm body would be resur­rec­ted in the
word. Now as I watch the death of words, I know there is
no limit to decay. All that will be left after us in the black
earth will be scattered syl­lables. Accents over noth­ing­ness
and dust.

---

Pebble

The pebble
is a per­fect creature

equal to itself
mind­ful of its limits

filled exactly
with a pebbly meaning

with a scent that does not remind one of any­thing
does not frighten any­thing away does not arouse desire

its ardour and cold­ness
are just and full of dignity

I feel a heavy remorse
when I hold it in my hand
and its noble body
is per­meated by false warmth

–Pebbles can­not be tamed
to the end they will look at us
with a calm and very clear eye

---

I Would Like to Describe

I would like to describe the simplest emo­tion
joy or sad­ness
but not as oth­ers do
reach­ing for shafts of rain or sun

I would like to describe a light
which is being born in me
but I know it does not resemble
any star
for it is not so bright
not so pure
and is uncertain

I would like to describe cour­age
without drag­ging behind me a dusty lion
and also anxi­ety
without shak­ing a glass full of water

to put it another way
I would give all meta­phors
in return for one word
drawn out of my breast like a rib
for one word
con­tained within the bound­ar­ies
of my skin

but appar­ently this is not possible

and just to say — I love
I run around like mad
pick­ing up hand­fuls of birds
and my ten­der­ness
which after all is not made of water
asks the water for a face

and anger
dif­fer­ent from fire
bor­rows from it
a loqua­cious tongue

so is blurred
so is blurred
in me
what white-haired gen­tle­man
sep­ar­ated once and for all
and said
this in the sub­ject
this is the object

we fall asleep
with one hand under our head
and with the other in a mound of planets

our feet aban­don us
and taste the earth
with their tiny roots
which next morn­ing
we tear out painfully

---

Lament

To the memory of my mother
And now she has over her head brown clouds of roots
a slim lily of salt on the temples beads of sand
while she sails on the bottle of a boat through foam­ing nebulas

A mile bey­ond us where the river turns
visible-invisible as the light on a wave
truly she isn’t different–abandoned like all of us.

---

A Knocker

There are those who grow
gar­dens in their heads
paths lead from their hair
to sunny and white cities

it’s easy for them to write
they close their eyes
imme­di­ately schools of images
stream down their foreheads

my ima­gin­a­tion
is a piece of board
my sole instru­ment
is a wooden stick

I strike the board
it answer me
yes–yes
no–no

for oth­ers the green bell of a tree
the blue bell of water
I have a knocker
from unpro­tec­ted gardens

I thump on the board
and it prompts me
with the mor­al­ists dry poem
yes–yes
no–no

---

The Return of the Proconsul

I’ve decided to return to the emperor’s court
once more I shall see if it’s pos­sible to live there
I could stay here in this remote province
under the full sweet leaves of syca­mores
under the rule of sickly nepotists

when I return I don’t intend to com­mend myself
I shall applaud in meas­ured por­tions
smile in ounces frown dis­creetly
for that they will not give me a golden chain
this iron one will suffice

I’ve decided to return tomor­row or the next day
I can­not live among vine­yards noth­ing here is mine
trees have no roots houses no found­a­tions the rain is glassy flowers smell of wax
a dry cloud rattles against the empty sky
so I shall return tomor­row the next day in any case I shall return

I must come to terms with my face again
with my lower lip so it knows how to check scorn
with my eyes so they remain ideally empty
and with that miser­able chin the hare of my face
which trembles when the chief of guards walks in

of one thing I am sure I will not drink wine with him
when he brings his gob­let nearer I will lower my eyes
and pre­tend I’m pick­ing bits of food from between my teeth
besides the emperor likes cour­age of con­vic­tions
to a cer­tain extent to a cer­tain reas­on­able extent
he is after all a man like every­one
and already tired by all those tricks with poison
he can­not drink his fill incess­ant chess
this left cup is for Drusus from the right one pre­tend to sip
then drink only water never lose sight of Tacitus

take a walk in the garden and return when the copse has been removed
I’ve decided to return to the emperor’s court
I really hope that things will work out somehow

---

The Tongue

Inadvertently I passed the bor­der of her teeth and swal­lowed
her agile tongue. It lives inside me now, like a Japanese fish. It
brushes against my heart and my dia­phragm as if against the walls
of an aquar­ium. It stirs silt from the bot­tom.
She whom I deprived of a voice stares at me with big eyes
and waits for a word.
Yet I do not know which tongue to use when speak­ing to
her — the stolen one or the one which melts in my mouth from an
excess of heavy goodness.

---

The Rain

When my older brother
came back from war
he had on his fore­head a little sil­ver star
and under the star
an abyss

a splinter of a shrapnel
hit him at Verdun
or per­haps at Tannenberg
(he for­got details)

he used to talk much
in many lan­guages
but he liked most of all
the lan­guage of history

until los­ing breath
he com­manded his dead pals to run
Roland John Doe Hannibal

he shouted
that this it the last cru­sade
that Carthage soon will fall
and then sob­bing con­fessed
that Napoleon does not love him

we looked at him
get­ting paler and paler
aban­doned by his senses
he turned slowly into a monument

into musical shells of ears
entered a stony forest

and the skin of his face
was secured

with blind and dry
but­tons of eyes

noth­ing was left
but touch

what stor­ies
he told with his hands
in the right he had romances
in the left soldier’s memories

they took my brother
and car­ried him out of town
he returns every fall
slim and very quiet
he does not want to enter
he calls at the windowpane

we walk together in the streets
and he recites to me
improb­able tales
touch­ing my face
with blind fin­gers of rain

---

The Envoy of Mr Cogito

Go where those oth­ers went to the dark bound­ary
for the golden fleece of noth­ing­ness your last prize
go upright among those who are on their knees
among those with their backs turned and those toppled in the dust
you were saved not in order to live
you have little time you must give testi­mony
be cour­ageous when the mind deceives you be cour­ageous
in the final account only this is import­ant
and let your help­less Anger be like the sea
whenever your hear the voice of the insul­ted and beaten
let you sis­ter Scorn not leave you
for the inform­ers exe­cu­tion­ers cow­ards — they will win
they will go to your funeral with relief will throw a lump of earth
the wood­borer will write your smoothed-over bio­graphy
and do not for­give truly it is not in your power
to for­give in the name of those betrayed at dawn
beware how­ever of unne­ces­sary pride
keep look­ing at your clown’s face in the mir­ror
repeat: I was called — weren’t there bet­ter ones than I
beware of dry­ness of heart love the morn­ing spring
the bird with an unknown name the winter oak
light on a wall the splend­our of the sky
they don’t need your warm breath
they are there to say: no one will con­sole you
be vigil­ant — when the light on the moun­tains gives the sign– arise and go
as long as blood turns in the breast your dark star
repeat old incant­a­tions of human­ity fables and legends
because this is how you will attain the good you will not attain
repeat great words repeat them stub­bornly
like those cross­ing the desert who per­ished in the sand
and they will reward you with what they have at hand
with the whip of laughter with murder on a garbage heap
go because only in this way you will be admit­ted to the com­pany of cold skulls
to the com­pany of your ancest­ors: Gilgamesh Hector Roland
the defend­ers of the king­dom without limit and the city of ashes
Be faith­ful Go

---

Mr Cogito and the Imagination

1

Mr Cogito never trus­ted
tricks of the imagination

the piano at the top of the Alps
played false con­certs for him

he didn’t appre­ci­ate labyrinths
the Sphinx filled him with loathing

he lived in a house with no base­ment
without mir­rors or dialectics

jungles of tangled images
were not his home

he would rarely soar
on the wings of a meta­phor
and then he fell like Icarus
into the embrace of the Great Mother

he adored tau­to­lo­gies
explan­a­tions
idem per idem

that a bird is a bird
slavery means slavery
a knife is a knife
death remains death

he loved
the flat hori­zon
a straight line
the grav­ity of the earth

2

Mr Cogito will be numbered
among the spe­cies minores

he will accept indif­fer­ently the ver­dict
of future schol­ars of the letter

he used the ima­gin­a­tion
for entirely dif­fer­ent purposes

he wanted to make it
an instru­ment of compassion

he wanted to under­stand to the very end

- Pascal’s night
– the nature of a dia­mond
– the mel­an­choly of the proph­ets
– Achilles’ wrath
– the mad­ness of those who kill
– the dreams of Mary Stuart
– Neanderthal fear
– the des­pair of the last Aztecs
– Nietzsche’s long death throes
– the joy of the painter of Lascaux
– the rise and fall of an oak
– the rise and fall of Rome

and so to bring the dead back to life
to pre­serve the covenant

Mr Cogito’s ima­gin­a­tion
has the motion of a pendulum

it crosses with pre­ci­sion
from suf­fer­ing to suffering

there is no place in it
for the arti­fi­cial fires of poetry

he would like to remain faith­ful
to uncer­tain clarity

---

THREE POEMS BY HEART

I
I can’t find the title
of a memory about you
with a hand torn from dark­ness
I step on frag­ments of faces
soft friendly pro­files
frozen into a hard con­tour
circ­ling above my head
empty as a fore­head of air
a man’s sil­hou­ette of black paper

II
living–despite
living–against
I reproach myself for the sin of for­get­ful­ness
you left an embrace like a super­flu­ous sweater
a look like a ques­tion
our hands won’t trans­mit the shape of your hands
we squander them touch­ing ordin­ary things
calm as a mir­ror
not mil­dewed with breath
the eyes will send back the ques­tion
every day I renew my sight
every day my touch grows
tickled by the prox­im­ity of so many things
life bubbles over like blood
Shadows gently melt
let us not allow the dead to be killed–
per­haps a cloud will trans­mit remem­brance–
a worn pro­file of Roman coins

III
the women on our street
were plain and good
they patiently car­ried from the mar­kets
bou­quets of nour­ish­ing veget­ables
the chil­dren on our street
scourge of cats
the pigeons–
softly gray
a Poet’s statue was in the park
chil­dren would roll their hoops
and col­or­ful shouts
birds sat on the Poet’s hand
read his silence
on sum­mer even­ings wives
waited patiently for lips
smelling of famil­iar tobacco
women could not answer
their chil­dren: will he return
when the city was set­ting
they put the fire out with hands
press­ing their eyes
the chil­dren on our street
had a dif­fi­cult death
pigeons fell lightly
like shot down air
now the lips of the Poet
form an empty hori­zon
birds chil­dren and wives can­not live
in the city’s funer­eal shells
in cold eider­downs of ashes
the city stands over water
smooth as the memory of a mir­ror
it reflects in the water from the bot­tom
and flies to a high star
where a dis­tant fire is burn­ing
like a page of the Iliad

---

A Ballad That We Do Not Perish

Those who sailed at dawn
but will never return
left their trace on a wave–
a shell fell to the bot­tom of the sea
beau­ti­ful as lips turned to stone
those who walked on a sandy road
but could not reach the shuttered win­dows
though they already saw the roofs–
they have found shel­ter in a bell of air
but those who leave behind only
a room grown cold a few books
an empty ink­well white paper–
in truth they have not com­pletely died
their whis­per travels through thick­ets of wall­pa­per
their level head still lives in the ceil­ing
their para­dise was made of air
of water lime and earth an angel of wind
will pul­ver­ize the body in its hand
they will be
car­ried over the mead­ows of this world

---

The Ardennes Forest

Cup your hands to scoop up sleep
as you would draw a grain of water
and the forest will come: a green cloud
a birch trunk like a chord of light
and a thou­sand eye­lids flut­ter­ing
with for­got­ten leafy speech
then you will recall the white morn­ing
when you waited for the open­ing of the gates
you know this land is opened by a bird
that sleeps in a tree and the tree in the earth
but here is a spring of new ques­tions
under­foot the cur­rents of bad roots
look at the pat­tern on the bark where
a chord of music tight­ens
the lute player who presses the frets
so the silent resounds
push away leaves: a wild straw­berry
dew on a leaf the comb of grass
fur­ther a wing of a yel­low dam­sel­fly
and an ant bury­ing its sis­ter
a wild pear sweetly ripens
above the treacher­ies of bel­ladon­nas
without wait­ing for greater rewards
sit under the tree
cup your hands to draw up memory
of the dead names dried grain
again the forest: a charred cloud
fore­head branded by black light
and a thou­sand lids pressed
tightly on motion­less eye­balls
a tree and the air broken
betrayed faith of empty shel­ters
that other forest is for us is for you
the dead also ask for fairy tales
for a hand­ful of herbs water of memor­ies
there­fore by needles by rust­ling
and faint threads of fra­grances–
no mat­ter that a branch stops you
a shadow leads you through wind­ing pas­sages–
you will find and open
our Ardennes Forest

---

About Troy

1
Troy O Troy
an arche­olo­gist
will sift your ashes through his fin­gers
yet a fire occurred greater than that of the Iliad
for seven strings–
too few strings
one needs a chorus
a sea of laments
and thun­der of moun­tains
rain of stone
–how to lead
people away from the ruins
how to lead
the chorus from poems–
thinks the fault­less poet
respect­ably mute
as a pil­lar of salt
–The song will escape unharmed
It escaped
with flam­ing wing
into a pure sky
The moon rises over the ruins
Troy O Troy
The city is silent

The poet struggles with his own shadow
The poet cries like a bird in the void

The moon repeats its land­scape
gentle metal in smol­der­ing ash

2
They walked along rav­ines of former streets
as if on a red sea of cinders
and wind lif­ted the red dust
faith­fully painted the sun­set of the city
They walked along rav­ines of former streets
they breathed on the frozen dawn in vain
they said: long years will pass
before the first house stands here
they walked along rav­ines of former streets
they thought they would find some traces
a cripple plays
on a har­mon­ica
about the braids of a wil­low
about a girl
the poet is silent
rain falls

---

Home

A home above the year’s sea­sons
home of chil­dren anim­als and apples
a square of empty space
under an absent star
home was the tele­scope of child­hood
the skin of emo­tion
a sister’s cheek
branch of a tree
the cheek was extin­guished by flame
the branch crossed out by a shell
over the powdery ash of the nest
a song of home­less infantry
home is the die of emo­tion
home is the cube of child­hood
the wing of a burned sis­ter
leaf of a dead tree

---

Architecture

Over a del­ic­ate arch–
an eye­brow of stone–
on the unruffled fore­head
of a wall
in joy­ful and open win­dows
where there are faces instead of gerani­ums
where rig­or­ous rect­angles
bor­der a dream­ing per­spect­ive
where a stream awakened by an orna­ment
flows on a quiet field of sur­faces
move­ment meets still­ness a line meets a shout
trem­bling uncer­tainty simple clar­ity
you are there
archi­tec­ture
art of fantasy and stone
there you reside beauty
over an arch
light as a sigh
on a wall
pale from alti­tude
and a win­dow
tear­ful with a pane of glass
a fugit­ive from appar­ent forms
I pro­claim your motion­less dance

---

Daedalus And Icarus

Daedalus says:

Go on sonny but remem­ber that you are walk­ing and not fly­ing
the wings are just an orna­ment and you are step­ping on a meadow
that warm gust is just the humid earth of sum­mer
and that cold one is a brook
the sky is full of leaves and small animals

Icarus says:

The eyes like two stones return straight to earth
and see a farmer who knocks asun­der oily till
a grub which wiggles in a fur­row
bad grub which cuts the bond of a plant with the earth

Daedalus says:

Sonny this is not true  The Cosmos is merely light
and earth is a bowl of shad­ows  Look as here col­ors play
dust rises from above the sea smoke rises to the sky
of noblest atoms a rain­bow sets itself now

Icarus says:

Arms hurt father from this beat­ing at vacuum
legs are get­ting numb and miss thorns and sharp stones
I can­not keep look­ing at the sun as you do father
I sunken whole in the dark rays of the earth

Description of the catastrophe:

Now Icarus falls down head first
the last frame of him is a glimpse of a heal child­like small
being swal­lowed by the devour­ing sea
Up above the father cries out the name
which no longer belongs to a neck or a head
but only to a remembrance

Commentary:

He was so young did not under­stand that wings are just a meta­phor
a bit of wax and feath­ers and a con­tempt for the laws of grav­it­a­tion
I can­not hold a body at an elev­a­tion of a great many feet
The essence of the mat­ter is in hav­ing our hearts
which are coursed by heavy blood
fill with air
and this very thing Icarus did not want to accept

let us pray

---

Why the Classics

1
in the fourth book of the Peloponnesian War
Thucydides tells among other things
the story of his unsuc­cess­ful exped­i­tion
among long speeches of chiefs
battles sieges plague
dense net of intrigues of dip­lo­matic endeav­ours
the epis­ode is like a pin
in a forest
the Greek colony Amphipolis
fell into the hands of Brasidos
because Thucydides was late with relief
for this he paid his nat­ive city
with lifelong exile
exiles of all times
know what price that is

2
gen­er­als of the most recent wars
if a sim­ilar affair hap­pens to them
whine on their knees before pos­ter­ity
praise their hero­ism and inno­cence
they accuse their sub­or­din­ates
envi­ous col­legues
unfa­vour­able winds
Thucydides says only
that he had seven ships
it was winter
and he sailed quickly

3
if art for its sub­ject
will have a broken jar
a small broken soul
with a great self-pity
what will remain after us
will it be lov­ers’ weep­ing
in a small dirty hotel
when wall-paper dawns

---

Elegy of Fortinbras

To C. M.

Now that we’re alone we can talk prince man to man
though you lie on the stairs and see more than a dead ant
noth­ing but black sun with broken rays
I could never think of your hands without smil­ing
and now that they lie on the stone like fallen nests
they are as defence­less as before The end is exactly this
The hands lie apart The sword lies apart The head apart
and the knight’s feet in soft slippers

You will have a soldier’s funeral without hav­ing been a sol­dier
they only ritual I am acquain­ted with a little
There will be no candles no singing only cannon-fuses and bursts
crêpe dragged on the pave­ment hel­mets boots artil­lery horses drums
drums I know noth­ing exquis­ite
those will be my man­oeuvres before I start to rule
one has to take the city by the neck and shake it a bit

Anyhow you had to per­ish Hamlet you were not for life
you believed in crys­tal notions not in human clay
always twitch­ing as if asleep you hunted chi­meras
wolfishly you crunched the air only to vomit
you knew no human thing you did not know even how to breathe

Now you have peace Hamlet you accom­plished what you had to
and you have peace The rest is not silence but belongs to me
you chose the easier part an eleg­ant thrust
but what is heroic death com­pared with eternal watch­ing
with a cold apple in one’s hand on a nar­row chair
with a view on the ant-ill and clock’ dial

Adieu prince I have tasks a sewer pro­ject
and a decree on pros­ti­tutes and beg­gars
I must also elab­or­ate a bet­ter sys­tem of pris­ons
since as you justly said Denmark is a prison
I go to my affairs This night is born
a star named Hamlet We shall never meet
what I shall leave will not be worth a tragedy

It is not for us to greet each other or bid farewell we live on archipela­gos
and that water these words what can they do what can they do prince

---

Prayer of Pan Cogito — Traveller

Lord
Thank you for cre­at­ing the world beau­ti­ful and of such vari­ety
And also for allow­ing me in your inex­haust­ible good­ness
To visit places which were not the scene of my daily torments

- for lying at night near a well in a square in Tarquinia while the sway­ing
bronze declared from the tower your wrath and forgiveness

and a little don­key on the island of Corcyra sang to mi from
its incred­ible bel­low­ing lungs the landscape’s melancholy

and in the very ugly city of Manchester I came across
very good and sens­ible people

nature reit­er­ated her wise tau­to­lo­gies the forest was
forest the sea was sea and rock was rock

stars orbited and things were as they should be — Jovis omnia plena

- for­give me think­ing only of myself when the life of
oth­ers cruel and irre­vers­ible turned round me like the huge
astro­lo­gical clock in the church at Beauvais

for being too cow­ardly and stu­pid because I did not under­stand
so many things

and also for­give me for not fight­ing for the hap­pi­ness of
poor and van­quished nations and for see­ing only moon­rise and museums
– thank you for the works cre­ated to glor­ify you which
have shared with me part of there mys­tery so that in gross conceit

I con­cluded that Duccio Van Eyck Bellini painted for me too

and like­wise the Acropolis which I had never fully under­stood
patiently revealed to me its mutil­ated flesh

- I pray that you do not for­get to reward the white-haired old
man who brought me fruit from his garden in the bay of the island of Ithaca

and also the teacher Miss Hellen on the isle of Mull whose
hos­pit­al­ity was Greek or Christian and who ordered light
to be placed in the win­dow facing Holy Iona so that human
lights might greet one another

and fur­ther­more all those who had shown me the way and said
kato kyrie kato

and that you should have in your care the Mother from Spoleto
Spiridion from Paxos and the good stu­dent from Berlin who
got me out of a tight spot and later, when I unex­pec­tedly
ran into him in Arizona, drove me to Grand Canyon which
is like a hun­dred thou­sand cathed­rals stand­ing on their heads

- grant O Lord that I may for­get my fool­ish and very weary
per­se­cutors when the sun sets into the vast uncharted
Ionian sea

that I may com­pre­hend other men other tongues other suf­fer­ing
and that I be not stub­born because my lim­it­a­tions are
without limits

and above all that I be humble, that is, one who sees
one who drinks at the spring

thank you O Lord for cre­at­ing a world very beau­ti­ful and varied

and if this is Your tempta­tion I am temp­ted for ever
and without forgiveness

---

Rovigo

ROVIGO STATION. Unclear asso­ci­ations. A drama of Goethe
or some­thing from Byron. I traveled through Rovigo
n times and exactly at the nth time I under­stood
that in my inner geo­graphy it is a spe­cial
place although it cer­tainly yields
to Florence. I never touched it with my liv­ing foot
and Rovigo was always approach­ing or flee­ing behind
At the time I was filled with love for the Altichiera
at the Oratory of San Giorgio in Padua and for Ferrara
which I loved because it reminded me
of the pil­laged city of my fath­ers. I lived stretched
between the past and the present moment
many times cru­ci­fied by a place and a time
And yet happy firmly trust­ing
the sac­ri­fice will not be wasted
Rovigo wasn’t dis­tin­guished by any­thing par­tic­u­lar it was
a mas­ter­piece of mediocrity straight streets plain houses
only before or after the city (depend­ing on the train’s dir­ec­tion)
a moun­tain sud­denly rose from the plain –sliced open by a red quarry
like an Easter Ham sur­roun­ded by kale
besides that noth­ing to amuse sad­den dazzle the eye
And yet it was a city of blood and stone — just like the oth­ers
a city in which yes­ter­day some­body died someone went mad
someone coughed hope­lessly through­out the night
ACCOMPANIED BY WHICH BELLS DO YOU APPEAR ROVIGO
Reduced to a sta­tion to a comma a crossed let­ter
noth­ing but a sta­tion — arrivi — partenze
and why do I think about you Rovigo Rovigo

---

In a City

In an east­ern city where I won’t return
there is a winged stone light and huge
light­ning strikes this winged stone
I close my eyes to remem­ber
in my city where I won’t return
there is heavy and nour­ish­ing water
the one who gives you a cup of this water
gives you the faith you will still return
in my faraway city that has gone
from all maps of the world there is bread that can nour­ish
through­out life black as the faith you will see again
stone bread water and the pres­ence of towers at dawn

---

The Power of Taste

It didn’t require great char­ac­ter at all
our refusal dis­agree­ment and res­ist­ance
we had a shred of neces­sary cour­age
but fun­da­ment­ally it was a mat­ter of taste
Yes taste
in which there are fibers of soul the car­til­age of
con­science
Who knows if we had been bet­ter and more
attract­ively temp­ted
sent rose-skinned women thin as a wafer
or fant­astic creatures from the paint­ings of
Hieronymus Bosch
but what kind of hell was there at this time
a wet pit the mur­der­ers’ alley the bar­rack
called a palace of justice
a home-brewed Mephisto in a Lenin jacket
sent Aurora’s grand­chil­dren on into the field
boys with potato faces
very ugly girls with red hands
.….….…..
So æsthet­ics can be help­ful in life
one should not neg­lect the study of beauty
Before we declare our con­sent we must care­fully
exam­ine
the shape of the archi­tec­ture the rhythm of the drums

offi­cial col­ors the despic­able ritual of funer­als
Our eyes and refused obed­i­ence
the princes of our senses proudly chose exile

---

… more poems to come.

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