The Desert-Sea Poem by Stefan BR

Who can sing
the windy desert
in which the cliffs fell down
in which the lofty stars went out
in which the rivers of time dried up -
who can sing it,
for the sea shipwrecked,
for the sky lost all its thousand feathers,
for the guitar traded its chords for cold dust -
oh, who can sing it loud,
the artillery of hope
stolen by the thieves of fear,
the booming beat of a bird's bright wings
shattered in exchange for a silent safety…
the slither of that screeching scythe
holds dread over disbelief.

Who can sing this wasteland,
this barren empire of blind boulders
this sand mound with the idiot's cross,
claiming civilization on the tomb of empathy,
oh, just tell me who can sing this grasshopping desert,
this field of the golden-grey sugar cane,
this hollow garden trading parasites for flowers
who, who!
for even it…
the tall mount of love,
reaching for the hand of meaning
in a shouting rage, sprouting its slopes in tears,
is collapsed from an Olympus to a scattering of hills -
to a stillness of ravenous waves.

I drank a cup of tea,
in the humming, clear night,
and I said it,
and I said it to myself…
I can't fathom who can,
if not all of us,
those wishing to dig a hole in a soft ground -
throwing our fanged monsters
in the desert-sea.