A white blossoming fear, foam seethes
and breaks to nothing,
drops burn –
but it is not magic, not alchemy
or domino game of stars.
It is liquid,
a clear fluid, that fastens on
any skin at all,
light, dark or wrong…
An angel flaps its wings
in order to tear itself free from the railings
around the playground,
which tomorrow is the world’s arena.
There children spray petrol
in a sudden flicker of light.
There children drench a springtime
one pouring light green day, where sparrows
chirrup tropically in the hedge.
There they are setting fire to a playmate,
shouting for help,
as flames with a breath
leap black-tongued up.
as the skin melts,
as body and shadow are one
and can no longer be separated –
as the silence disfigured screams in several languages
as the child is embalmed alive in shock and raincoat.
(my translation from Danish)
No comments:
Post a Comment