A new beast wanders beneath the stars,
slouching towards the Undiscovered Country,
Saturn pulsing at his breast.

If he could speak, he could tell
of no more than the division in his soul:
he could not say why the moon is blood-soaked;
nor why the ground is cracked
like a broken clay pot;
nor why the soil is dust, blown
over the skeletons of yew trees.
Yet the creature presses on
like manifest destiny.

It is Saturn who sustains him;
it is she who grants him solace
beneath a besmirched sky.

(May those who have ears listen!)

Who is there to hear his cry?

The shadows are silent;
the stars are silent;
even the fire
which seems to burn in his heart
is silent.

What became of those
who said there would be war?
They were consumed by fiery sword.
What of they who said
there'd be no war?
They are corpses, dragged away by dogs.
And what about the ones who said
there would be a war which
only they would survive?
They are appetizer for the birds of Heaven,
entree for the beasts of Earth,
and dessert for the worms.

What of this one?
Why does he survive?

He crawls across the barren heights,
gasping like a jackal:
death's perfume is more plentiful
than the desert sands;
he is blinded - but it doesn't matter -
there is no light to see by.

Saturn is beside him;
she has closed his eyes
to delusive visions;
sealed his ears to hollow promises.
Through her solace, he
does not know the foreigner's daydream.

She is the fire at his breast
which would torment him
if he for one minute stopped.
She will not abandon him
nor will she release him
from her caress:
and he cannot denounce her
nor rebuke her
until he has reached the goal.

(Mark well my words!)

Until he has found his way
to the pyre, fueled
by the force of 10,000 suns;
until he can join the others
who by wealth of fire & wind
also were Drowning Men.

26.XII.83