Dead men Poem by Tomaž Šalamun

dead men, dead men
where in the steppes the birds flit and the day splits in half
where the cube heads are sailboats of whispering and the wagon
loads of boards rebound off cliffs
where mornings glitter like the eyes of Slavs
where in the north the beavers slap each other, it resounds as an
invitation to death
where the children point to their livid eyes and jump with rage on
the timber
where, with their torn-off arms, they scare the bulls belonging to the
neighbors
where they stand in line for the cold
where the bread stinks of vinegar, women of wild animals
dead men, dead men
where the tusks flash and fairy tales rustle
where the highest art is to nail the slave in midair
where the corn is burned on the vast plains so that God can smell it
dead men, dead men
where there are special churches for birds to teach them to bear the
burdens of their souls
where the inhabitants at every meal snap their braces and step on
sacred texts under the table
where the little balls are orange, mothers are nailed onto square
shapes
where the horses are black with soot
dead men, dead men
where the skittles are tools of giants bruising their greasy hands on
logs
where Šalamun would be greeted with screams
dead men, dead men
where all doormen are yellow men because they blink faster
where meat dealers are beaten to death with rackets and left
unburied
where the Danube flows into the movie, from the movie into the sea
where the soldier's bugle is the signal for spring
where souls leap high and whisper in chorus
dead men, dead men
where the reading is strengthened with gravel, to be heard when we
strike it, it booms
where the trees have screw threads, the boulevards knee joints
where they cut into children's skin the first day after birth, as into
cork trees
where they sell alcohol to the old women
where the youth scrapes his mouth as the dredger scrapes the
bottom of the river
dead men, dead men
where mothers are proud and pluck out filaments from their sons
where the locomotives are covered with elk's blood
where the light rots and cracks
where the ministers are dressed in granite
where wizardry causes animals to fall into baskets, the jackals
tread on the eyes of otters
dead men, dead men
where one marks the sides of the sky with the cross
where the wheat is rugged and the cheeks puffed up by fires
where the flocks have eyes of leather
where all waterfalls are of dough, they tie them with black ribbons of
young beings
where they break the instep bones of geniuses with timber hooks
dead men, dead men
where photography is limited to plants that grow and blow up the
paper
where the plums dry in the lofts and fall in the old songs
where soldiers' mothers wheel the food parcels up to the rack
where the herons are built as athletic Argonauts
dead men, dead men
where sailors come to visit
where in the villas the horses neigh, the travelers smell
where the little bathroom tiles are covered with drawings of iris seeds
where the cannibals are fed wooden shingles
where the vine branches are wrapped in gray veils so that the eyes of
the jealous film over

Translated by Michael Biggins