Rugged up winter scene Poem by Nicolas Born

I feel nothing and move through silent motorcades.
The world is wrapped in golden paper.
Electricians groan.
The brain feasts on the yellow neon fowl
of Wienerwald restaurants;
a pack of cough drops shines in a fiery splendour.
Here on the steps of the U-Bahn I shed
unrestrained tears
and once again winter passes at our place
without any sign of cultivated pearls.
The main character lies in his little bed
my child, I look at him, it's Jesus.
He smells lovely in his nappies - baby cream
mixed odours and feelings, woollen socks
an inn, a light one can head toward.
I take my hands out of my pockets. I'm
nuts about this baby smell.
The green bathwater drains and
a miracle froths up underground, out of sight.
You and I - with an infinitely human expression
we nailed ourselves to a cross this morning.
It was just another breakfast. My wife's
milk is kept away from the hard graft. I
appreciate that.
Gunfire continues outside. They
grab us by our little legs and throw us into the air.
We'll be beaten and shot, but not
till later on.
Jesus grabs at my glasses, or maybe
he's just trying to bless me.
I don't want any old tales nor
any new tales. And I don't want any
modernised tales.
I want human energy metamorphosed
into warm rooms and hot dinners.
I'll chop your wood for you, so you'll be warm
from Christmas till Easter.
I loathe comparisons but once
in Wiesloch they refused to give us a room
because of how we looked.
For your sake I won't get sloshed this Christmas.
I can already see you chewing on a straw
in the sun.
A quartet of angels sings on the radio
the soul of a hen flies up from the chopping block
and the postie flies by and gives me
four hundred marks
and travellers fly up to a heaven
softened by snow.
I'm smoking again.
The three kings must be nearby - I hear bells.
Bright windows flanked by dark clouds.
You're Jesus, but you're not the only one.
In my wallet I carry a radio-photogram
of deer being fed in the Harz Mountains
a Russian sleigh ride runs
through your childhood.
These angels lewdly squeal.
They've lost their secret and they spin
like bits of aeroplane.
It smells like a roast, that's how it is at our place.
I'll never find out how old you'll get,
Jesus
made by me and in my image
you won't get far.

Translated by Marty Hiatt