'How dear of you to let me out of jail....'
Beckett, dead in the Cathedral,
memories of his, and your father's, arms,
but that's only here-say heresy.
'What mother does not love being
locked-up with her children....'
in the political boredom of
throne ascendency....
but not this year, children.
'We'll see the Second Coming
before....' another carpenter
is resurrected from stone-tomb.
'Oh can't you see it is us!
Not countries, not politics,
who breed war....WE are
the barbarians, WE all carry
knives....can't we all live
in peace, for a change? '
We all own this earth,
indivisible by lines on a map.
Indivisible by who challenges who.
We are all barbarians
of the printed word....
'Love me, little lamb, or leave me.'
'Departure is a simple act.'
Put the left knife down,
and then the right....can't
we all live in peace, for a change?
'Well, all families have their
ups and downs....'
And, 'peace', correctly spelled
here and now, is 'a glimmering
of Light in barbarians' minds.'
We ALL wear cave-skins
to ward against cave-cold,
in fire-lighting our world
of neolithic ideas, printed 'again'.
Murder is a sport.
Again, take the knives I give you.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem