I sink in the ice of Kronstadt I lie under the plaster of Paris I am glued to the walls of Warsaw I stand petrified in Berlin I lie in the streets of Barcelona I fall in a hail of bullets from the White Guard I lie in the snow of Petrograd Lie buried in the forests of Peru I bleed out in the sands of Spain I lie on the Ukrainian steppes I freeze in Siberia Worn down between Hammer and Cross I escape over the sea And I shiver there too They send me back They send me away They ban me They consoled themselves with safety Over me away I’m lying in the port of Odessa Lying garrotted in Leon Mauled by the bloodhounds Of the new order I flow from torn-out throats I am the scream That rises from the steppes That drifts in from the sea Too seldom do I urge myself in circles Centers, wings And even my wish for gentleness Is drawn from the long struggle With the brutality From hiding, from ambush From the belief and the lie I speak in an awkward plethora of voices I’m wildfire I’m rumor, fragment and reason And now your search leads you to me In the exile of defeated revolutions In remote villages of the French provinces In Brusselers’ garrets In attic apartments In Amsterdam and London In Barcelona’s backyards In the barns of Gascony My tracks are covered Yellowed, tattered almost forgotten Spare are the remains, What from brochures and tracts Leaflets and reportage Essays and biographies Speeches and memoirs I know to report I lie buried in the bomb shelter Coded in encryption and bunkered between newspapers And false walls Hidden behind portraits In the cellars of the exile One finds only remnants of conspiracy of life in the underground of the immortal camaraderie and hopefully What you find written here Has through a thousand secret hands been passed Conveyed Through generations, throughout Insights into tradition In witness reports and decrees Been passed on in secret copies Illegal printed material in manifestos Half-lost newspapers in fragile folds Full of languages believed dead In occasional hints Then you will always find something in my black fabric That we once encircled everything Are you looking for the testimonials of your champion? All of this may remain only fragmentary Each remains alone And yet in every gasp of this surrounding totality How would you compose me In writing? How, wanderer, do you want To give me a voice? To give this smoke form? To codify this air? And who will now Interpret authoritatively? Who built finality? Is it a shame about humanity? Is it?
Posted on: Sat, 26 Jul 2014 08:12:59 +0000
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