I slit the gorge of the mutton
and filled the fosse with blood,
the shadows came, met one
another here - I listened hard -
each one drank and recounted
tales of swords and decaying,
the steer- and swan-mounted
women cried in their train.
Quaternary cycles - scenes,
but they leave you unaware,
is the last thing now the tears
or is it desire -
or refracting a few colors
if both are a rainbow,
mirrored or deceived -
you know, you don't know.
Colossal brains are bending
over their then and when,
they watch the thread unwinding
that the ancient spider spins,
with snuffling in every distance
on everything that fails,
breeding their own resistance
the world observing itself
One of God's dreams
looked for a while at itself,
playfully, and in derision
the old Spinnerman looks too,
then he gathers asphodels
and wanders along the Styx -
leave suffering for the last ones
leave them stories to tell
All Souls' Evening -
"Fini du tout."
Translated from the Gennan
by
Teresa Iverson
