Terrestrial Verses

Then The sun turned cold And abundance left lands And in deserts shrubs dried And in deeps the fish died And thereafter the earth Did not receive the dead. The night in all the pale windows Was incessantly raging and rebelling Like a suspicious fancy, And the roads Abandoned their ends in the dark. None thought of love any more None thought of glory any more And none Thought of nothing any more. In the dens of solitude Vanity was born, The blood smelled of opium and hemp, The pregnant women Gave birth to headless babies And the shameful cradles Took refuge in the graves. What a bitter and dark time! Bread had defeated The miraculous force of prophecy, Poor hungry prophets Escaped from divine trysts And the lost lambs of Jesus Did not hear the dirge of a shepherd In the wonder of the desert, As if in the eyes of the mirrors Motions, colours and pictures Reversely were reflected And as if a sacred shining halo was burning like an umbrella ablaze Over the heads of the despised clowns And over the ugly faces of prostitutes. The swamps of alcohol Giving off a poisonous bitter vapor Drew into their depth The motionless mass of intellectuals And the noxious mice chewed up the gilded pages of books Preserved in ancient chests. The sun was dead The sun was dead, and tomorrow Was a vague lost concept In children's mind. They were drawing The weirdness of this obsolete word With a black stain In their homework. People, The lapsed bunch of people Dejected, dumbfounded and feeble Were wandering about in exile Under the evil weight of their corpses And the painful desire for murder Was inflating in their hands Sometimes an insignificant spark All of a sudden, from within Shattered this silent lifeless society; They would attack one another Men would cut each other's throat With a dagger And in a bed of blood They would sleep with Immature girls. They were obsessed with terror And the scary sense of sinfulness Had paralyzed Their blind and stupid souls. Always during the execution When the hanging rope Pushed out A convict's convulsive eyes They would be lost in thought And their old and weary nerves Would ache of a lustful fancy, But you would ever see These small murderers Standing And staring at The constant fall of fountains. Perhaps still Behind the crushed eyes Amidst the chill There had remained Something faint and half-alive In whose breathless effort Wanted to believe In the innocence of the song of waters Perhaps , but what an infinite vacuum! The sun was dead And nobody knew The name of that sad dove Which has escaped the hearts Is faith. O Imprisoned Voice Can the majesty of thy despair Ever penetrate into light Through this disgusting night? O Imprisoned Voice The last voice of voices ...