Holding a sword and laughing
at my purified pride, someone predicted:
you’ll be nothing, and for your vacant soul
the future holds only regret for the past.
Your body, where the blood of pure ancestors has soured,
frail and leaden, with each endeavour will be broken,
you’ll be the restless stooping figure at the windows
from where you’ll see life spring with its chariots of gold.
Your nerves will enlace you with sapless fibres,
your nerves! And your nails will soften with boredom,
your brow will rule your dreams like a tomb
and night in the mirrors, your nocturnal terror.
To escape yourself! – if you could! But no, your lassitude
and that of others will have bent your back
so surely, fastened your feet so firmly, that stupor
will dethrone your mind and seal your bones with lead.
Blazing and chattering, flags advance towards struggles,
alas, your bloodless mouth will never bite on them:
Threadbare, your heart, your sorrowful heart, in quarrels
with ancient texts, where one trims away as if at cloth.
You’ll go on, isolated, alone – and the not so distant
time of youth will be a futile magnet
for your huge faraway eyes – and the joyful thunder
will charge on far from you, and conquer!