The animal garden
Is now a murder-hole.
Language was always the Labyrinth.
Civilisation is striving, spurning
starving, burning
mass graves and marble tombs,
wonderful wine and no-one to drink it with
but the Black Riders
the achievers, civilised dealers
in death, machine-mad
half-controlling the machine.
They are the forms of desire
(suppression of grace, the soul's death)
stencils of men,
power-bleak, power-black
teeth in the maw
of perpetual war
against Nature and grace
as the planet of pain and vainglory
hurtles through space.
but the Black Riders'...made me think of Tolkien. & the last two lines i dig. hurling into the empty air of existence! keep 'em coming. Sus/
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Love 'power-bleak, power-black.' An economic system that bases most of its success on building up a never-ending base of consumers and validates itself through the cynical supposition that people want nothing more than to spend their lives acquiring more and more unneeded products, is a peculiar system indeed.