Everything is sickness and weakness with Ingmar Bergman.
(Charles Bronson)
In this hamlet, Death is a warm oven:
It has always been open like space
No trace is left of amethyst clarity
And the labored breath still lives on
Inside the Dyonisic offerings of flowers
Blue life lines and brittle blue walls,
All tragically festooned with the sun-lit
Palladian words. Neptune reigns here.
A touch of the streets once spiked
The blood for a student Bel Air prince
Until a vigilante shooting star fed
Him warm tea instead of mother's milk
How do you say blue in Lithuanian?
And can Houdini conjure the mesmerizing
Bright pink of a cold beetroot soup?
Time is a slippered murderer clad
In soft and noiseless emu feathers
Ever shifting dunes of morphine dreams
Sidestep the peaceful lull of Baltic waves
Or was it those sea witch voices?
Harmonized and crystallized, the music called
Forth the purple splendor of old gods
Who relish the vaulted blood of Ben-Hur
On All Hallow's Eve...
The pain of living in a Roman war galley
Is metastasizing through the blue house
No sun gods come with healing water
Enter Death with a fistful of ale; the fluid
Camera cuts with the hissing and the teasing
Of monosyllables: now the young must die
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem