God’s ancient plaything
lays motionless while around it
fishes, small plants and steam are rising
and it settles down bit by bit
while in its stomach burns an ancient fire
and very deep down it swallows fishes by the ton
before sleeping some more is its only desire
but its eyes are always switched on
while it waits aeons for Michael to return
and in its heart hatred and longing for destruction burns
where it is gigantic in size, lying like a mountain of fuming rock
and slowly one of its many heads turns and turns
trying to comprehend,
while it lies if all its energy is spent
waiting, always waiting
to bring earth to its devastation, to its end.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem