A Ballad of the Dialectical Materialism
November 15, 2007
Time will come – after sleeplessness and meanders,
After long marches through mountains and eras –
The squadron will stop and we will get off the horses.
Unusual will be for us this distance –
From the stirrup to the ground.
We will still be dizzy from the counter blows,
From the sad betrayal of our sons and fathers,
From the free air,
That we swallowed
Together with the tears for the dead ones –
We will be dizzy.
Who are you? – history will ask us. –
From which dynasty? Where are your distinctions?
Architecture? Music? Art?
We will only smile through air’s glass,
Sweaty from the panting horses’ nostrils.
Then nature will draw us with long arms,
With eyes in which gladiators run – Thracians, Incas, Mayas,
And above our heads she will put a halo of mothers
That we killed out of pain, before they would have killed us.
A lot of words will become useless,
Like, actually, they are now.
Future will have a precise mathematical language.
Under the little electronic stars above us
Will stand a short mathematical equation:
The distance from the ground to the stirrup
Equals the square of the distance from the ground to the sun.
– On the horses! –
Will command a boy – white, black or yellow.
And all the kids will get on their crazy sticks.