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|
| What have you done |
| you intellectualists? |
| you mystifiers? |
| you false existentialist sorcerers? |
| you surrealistic poppies shining on a tomb? |
| you pale grubs in the capitalist cheese? |
| What did you do |
| about the kingdom of anguish? |
| about this dark human being |
| kicked into submission? |
| about this head |
| submerged in manure? |
| about this essence |
| of harsh, trampled lives? |
| You didn't do anything but escape |
| you sold piles of debris |
| you looked for heavenly hairs |
| cowardly plants, broken fingernails |
| "pure beauty" "magic". |
| Your works were those of poor frightened folk |
| trying to keep your eyes from looking |
| trying to protect their delicate pupils |
| so you could make for your living |
| a plate of dirty scraps |
| which the masters flung to you. |
| Without seeing that the stones are in agony, |
| without defending, without conquering, |
| blinder than the wreaths |
| in the cemetery when the rain |
| falls on the motionless |
| rotten flowers on the tomb. |
