NONETHELESS GERMANY MOVES (POEM)

 

And the time parted from the hour listening

to his mass, listening to his being, listening

to his comet with moans grave cetacean,

listening to the queen ant that fell asleep

suddenly stopping, listening to the nudity

of the goddess Freya mistress of the sleep.

And they all around stopped when the queen

ant Freya stayed under a leaf of rape and seemed

to be dead. Then Germany lost her becoming

and Odin from Walhalla was saddened

clinging with his bare hands to the tail

of the comet’s fire and to the horns where

the mane finishes her terrible racing

and Odin began recounting it to himself:

break yourself into pieces only in the skies

gather yourself together only in the columns

curves on all the firmament describe yourself

with Gothic letters, being of music, double

the steps of the queen ant on the earth.

The Death? Look, she’s standing by the garment

of Freya and she’s staying motionless.

The life, too happy a beast, is thinking.

Unhappy God, Odin raise your forehead,

raise Walhalla do you want to abandon

all these things? The world advances no more.

Germany advances no more.  The queen ant

Freya advances no more, she stays alone,

motionless under the small leaf of rape

nor can you say at least that she exists

and she was advancing with uproar

on Ancient, heavenly Greece and suddenly

she stopped as if torn asunder from the middle.

Odin scratches at his beard. Is it possible

that she forgive my crushed ambitions

incessantly so that we see no more the profuse

end; so that the day of victory send us to sleep

over the shame of the incapacity, of the treason.

Did the Fate condemn us? Love, power, energies

above all the joys awaken ye Freya, my bride

I god and youthfulness of this being,

I beg you, I am the saint sunk in prayers

on the terrace from Walhalla and with the eyes

motionless on the body of Freya, little ant,

little queen.  I see you from the dark armchair

as from a sepulchre I tap at you with my finger

and I pray to you that you give a sign of life.

The lamp illuminates very vividly these newspapers

from Germany that I reread and no glad tidings

and in my eyes lights up the little barred ant

and then I implore her wailing, “Rise, little love,

you stayed numb enough and let’s go to Ancient

heavenly Greece and let’s do a great wedding.

My Freya, my Germany don’t stay motionless

anymore under the leaf of rape. Thus looking

at you I morph into a long, dry road. The atrocious

microbes, virulent viruses drill holes in you

tear your wings to shreds, burn your brain,

gnaw on your nerves and you stay motionless,

little love, voices sounding with the uvular R

split you with the hacksaw, you little princess,

little queen ant under the shadow of the leaf

of rape, under the long grass rocked by the sky

my little blue flower, the accompanying little

damsels died, you babe of angel, babe of raw

silk, little babe of quail, take some mead, some

pollen and sprinkle it on your head, break

off a splinter of rainbow and put it on your

slender tongue, put beads of syllogisms

on your neck and diamonds of sense on your

head soft garments of silk, top of distaff golden

fleece and take small steps to Ancient heavenly

Greece where you set out for from the very

beginning and now you stay under a stone

in the dust of flakes and of nothing. Olympus

shall be you. I remain with you so that you

wake up but no little foot moved. Silence.

“Thor! What are you doing, Thor? Bring a great

tempest to awaken Freya, the queen ant, our

dispersed Germany.” “Master, what Freya

needs is not great tempest. She needs a pitchfork

snatch it out of the hands of a Russian peasant

and hit her on the buttocks.” “Her body is not

a treasure to be dispersed.” “Sure, hit her and she

will wake up.” Odin came with the Russian

pitchfork with six prongs and hit her on the buttocks

more times. First she moved a little foot then another one

and she set out for Ancient heavenly Greece, accompanied

by the graceful son of Pan, Odin the god of the little

flowers full of berries. The cheeks dirtied with dregs.

His fangs shine. The chest similar to a zither clinking

travels along the arms of Freya. Germany moves,

Europe moves, she moves her thighs. Genitalia

sleep no more.