Exile

Rotten if the warp and woof of your home town be,
The hanging threads of all cities rip each to each, and
For a distant anamnesis, the word homeland an appellation would but be,
In a hesitant mind disorientated about where and when to belong to
An alien you be, it matters not!
Whether in the North or in the South of all these aeons,
In your land, in that very same land
To your absences only framed,
No sun also rises, and
And you remain but a wanderer, to whom
There will be never a destination awaiting…

 

The Surreal World, Now

Murky is the firmament in sanguineous crimson,
The air stenches of ash dancing cheek to cheek with blood.
The ablaze fumes from far-off distances,
Busy with devouring the cadavers of Being,
The last survivor’s ebony tresses dishevelled.
A fissured flesh in weeping wound and
Two weary hands have in perpetuity
Stretched to touch the state of inexistence;
The flimsy angels into the lowest bottom of the Fire fall, and
The ending curtain also turns into gaping jaws cachinnating:
 “God and Satan had been two sides of a same apocryphal coin which,
In Human both forged be, and the earth
In teary eyes circumambulates, while
Stifling is in profusion in the air.”
Towards an ignis fatuus the skyline is headed,
And hope into the Earth’s inner core,
And The cursing Sun a fugitive in pursuit of night.
Solitude has crept into Love’s bedchamber attire by raping amused,
And The dusk is pandering to its every whim, and
Time has its pharynx squeezed by the rebellion unbound.

Calmly to each other’s bosoms rested are the mad,
Since they in pain have dwelled, and know,
Life is but the palpitation and respiration of the veins each to each,
And birth is but nothing rather than the cries
Being wailed within arms of tear …
And The last survivor,
And the last survivor under the spell of empty iteration of breathing.

Teil des Zyklus: Aus dem Harz der Empfängnis