A moment of compassion
led John, at Life’s last stage,
to take his little bluebird
out of his little cage.

And at the open window
he held him in his hand:
‘For many years you’ve served me,
a singer and a friend.

‘But I have been too selfish
and can no longer bear
to see you caged’, he whispered
and threw him in the air.

The bluebird hit the pavement,
splashing some passers-by;
caged for so long, he couldn’t
remember how to fly.

Of course you need a qualification
to be a barber and take care
of whitewalls and of pompadours,
because we trust you with our hair.

Of course you need a qualification
as clerk of a bank where people stash
their money and regard it safe,
because we trust you with our cash.

But you don't need a qualification
to be a parent or MP,
because you only rule our lives -
just how demanding could that be?

The farmer sowed his field one sunny day.
The crows said: 'Look, he feeds us!' and swooped down.
The farmer pulled his gun, and with a frown
he shot the crows and carried them away.

'He's trapped us', croaked the chief. 'Go out and see
whether he eats them or just wants their hide.'
Two fledglings left, returned and said: 'They died
to fill a hole behind the chestnut tree.'

'That is disgraceful', said the chief. 'He killed
our friends to fill a hole? Let's gather wood
and leaves and twigs, and soon enough we should
finish his task and have the hollow filled.'

And so the hole was covered to the brim.
The chief announced: 'The farmer won't require
another crow. Eat to your heart's desire;
there's no more cause to be afraid of him!'

A crow swooped down and pecked a grain before
the farmer's very eyes. He looked the same
way that he looked before and took his aim
and shot her while the others watched in awe.

And as the farmer carried off the crow,
the chief just gulped and uttered: 'Here's the thing -
there's nothing wrong with deductive reasoning,
but it appears there's factors we don't know.'

- - - - - - -

Behind the tree, the farmer shook his head
as he disposed of her and saw the close
arrangement in the hole: 'God love those crows -
who would have thought they bury their own dead?'

- The Only True Religion -

Picking fruits and catching locusts,
chewing leaves and eating grains,
the first group of Homo sapiens
wanders through the lush green plains.

Suddenly a ball of lightning
with the fire of thousand suns
strikes the earth and makes it tremble,
and each human being runs.

As the grass and trees start burning,
all seek shelter in despair,
but the power of the impact
throws their bodies through the air.

And Anesidora, rising
from the ashes left behind
has to realise she is the
sole survivor of her kind.

And it is her only comfort
in her world of doom and gloom
that the children whom she carries
are still moving in the womb.

So she seeks a cave to sleep in
in the sun's declining light. -
She's still sleeping in that cavern,
for it's still the selfsame night.

She is dreaming of the future
that will be if she survives;
we're all part of this girl's vision
and that which we deem our lives.

Even though we're just the actors
in a vision, you will find:
all we do is fundamental
to the lot of humankind.

For the outcome of her vision
when she'll ope her eyes at dawn
will decide our fate and whether
she'll give up or carry on.

Caught in my trap I found a mouse
with fur smooth, soft and brown,
and by the field next to the house
I slowly let it down.

Then I removed the lid to set
the tiny creature free;
she didn't care because she ate
the bait quite eagerly.

I gently tilted the trap; she fell,
but still she'd fight and strive
to hold on to her prison cell
as if it meant her life.

She finished chocolate, nuts and cheese
while nothing else she'd yield,
and then she turned around with ease
and headed for the field.

As long as we are fed, we can't
leave for the better place,
for freedom is what we demand
after we've stuffed our face.

The Gnomes sat at the campfire
and passed the cup around
while smoking the tobacco
their busy wives had found.

‘We are proud men’, their chieftain
declared, ‘what makes us great!’
With this he nudged his neighbour:
‘What are you proud of, mate?’

The Gnome who sat beside him
just raised the cup and smiled:
‘I’m proud I slew that badger
who tried to eat your child!’

The Gnomes in turn were drinking
the wine their chief supplied
while listing the achievements
that filled their hearts with pride.

‘I’m proud I put up the barrier
that keeps away the mice,
and proud to see those flourish
who ask for my advice.’

‘I’m proud I build the burrows
in which our folk are safe
and all the dams that shelter
our village from the wave.’

‘I’m proud I pick the tubers
that feed our families
and the nutritious mushrooms
I find amongst the trees.’

‘I’m proud that I am writing
the songs you sing (or try)
and all the hymns and ballads
we’ll be remembered by.’

The last of them had nothing
to add but raised the cup;
his lack of motivation
could never shut him up.

Waving the flag of Gnomia,
he, with his mouth afoam,
screamed with endearing madness:
‘I’m proud to be a Gnome!’

There are birds that quack or coo or croak
and that teach their little chicks:
Birds don't sing!

There are birds that hide their heads in the sand
and that teach their little chicks:
Birds don't fly!

There are birds that dwell in solitude
and that teach their little chicks:
Birds don't flock!

There are birds that stay throughout the winter
and that teach their little chicks:
Birds don't move!

There are birds that build their nests in trees
and that teach their little chicks:
Birds don't swim!

There are birds that live on fruits and seeds
and that teach their little chicks:
Birds don't kill!

There are birds that sit in lonesome cages
and that teach their little chicks:
Birds aren't free!

When you are defeated by someone you flout
at, be jealous and curse him, but smile -
for sooner or later he’s bound to find out
that most of us have to lose once in a while.

If you fail, try again, and thereafter once more,
for no man has been born to ride pillions:
remember that you have succeeded before,
for once you have won a race against billions!

With every breath he took in life,
a-tic, a-toc, a-tic, a-toc,
he felt a restless beat inside,
the ticking of an inner clock.
When as a child he played alone
or was asleep or having fun,
the clock inside kept telling him:
It must be done, it must be done!

When he grew up to be a man,
a labourer of rising stock,
he felt obliged to pay his dues
and tried to satisfy the clock
by keeping time and working fast,
yet all his efforts were outrun
by that device commanding him:
It must be done, it must be done!

The working rhythm took its toll,
and still the clock kept racing on,
so he decided to ignore
its beat, pretending it was gone;
but when he stayed in bed till noon
or lazed inertly in the sun,
the clock inside reminded him:
It must be done, it must be done!

It ticked and ticked as he grew old,
accompanied his dying breath,
and once again it picked up speed
to mark the moment of his death.
And if there is an afterlife,
continuously the clock will run
inside the spirit of a man
who still won’t know what’s to be done.

Little friend behind the door,
as you strut across the floor,
gently measuring your pace,
I admire your pride and grace.

With a twinkle in your eyes
you take care of midges, flies
and our other tiny friends
whom a weird creator sends.

On your endless legs you sneak
up to them to take a peek;
as your patient playmate waits,
you approach him on all eights.

Furry pal, as soft as wool
and bizarrely beautiful,
you are such a pretty sight,
I could watch you day and night.

When you’re where you shouldn’t be,
on my hand I’ll gingerly
put you where you were before,
little friend behind the door.

See how it glitters in the sun
after all rain and thunder:
a skilful architect has done
his best to shape this wonder.

The cobweb is a dainty thing,
yet tough and indurating,
and creatures travelling on wing
may find it captivating.

Those trapped resist their hidden lord
with rage and apprehension,
tighten the net and pull the cord
to catch their host’s attention.

The struggling insects lose their nerve
and soon accept they’re beaten;
once paralysed, they will observe
themselves being wrapped and eaten.

This is the web of life for you,
and as you fight and languish,
each move just brings you closer to
the eight-legged god of anguish.

In the Cold War Cafe on campus we met
every night, the straight and the queer,
said hello to our friends, sat down and lit up
and drank beer that tasted of beer.
We were discussing the downfall of music,
how Kim Basinger's hair was curled,
the superpowers and all the horrors
if either took over the world.

In the Cold War Cafe on campus we mused;
at our table we didn't stint
on our criticism and talked about
what the press weren't allowed to print.
To escape unemployment, a lot of young men
whom History hadn't taught
volunteered for the army, for they were convinced
there'd be no more wars to be fought.

In the Cold War Cafe on campus we told
the jokes some are posting with glee
anonymously on the net,
because there was no PC.
We laughed at hilarious comedies
that no one dare filming today
since the euphemism language police
would see them get carried away.

In the Cold War Cafe till late at night
we'd smoke and drink and plot,
and our most traumatic experience
was the day John Lennon got shot.
When we learned of injustice anywhere
in the world, which often occurred,
we left our drinks and went out on the street
to let our voices be heard.

We didn't think that the world could change
(except for the better, of course);
the Cold War Cafe was where we'd be
until it closed its doors.
And now that a generation has passed,
there's a different neighbourhood,
and I found a recycling facility
where the Cold War Cafe once stood.

The pastel colours that discreetly
predominated flat and mind,
the aunts and uncles who adored me
are things I had to leave behind;

The granny with her bedtime stories
(when long I should have been in bed),
the sign above the ESSO station
(the first word that I ever read);

The walks along the River Elbe
or through the woods, and everywhere
it seemed to me that there was always
some kind of music in the air.

The crystal voices of such singers
as Connie Francis brought us bliss;
though there were other sounds, they wouldn’t
be heard in pious homes like this.

And everybody was nostalgic
and put his memories on a shelf;
but are our memories not better
than, tell me true, the thing itself?

Yet nothing’s lost; I have my music
as long as I will carry on,
and every decade has its magic
which can’t be seen before it’s gone.

Born nineteen years after the monster
had gone and left its lair in ruins,
living with sixty million victims
who never talked about those days,
each time I saw an elder woman
or man, I wondered where they were.
I felt like screaming (but bit my tongue):
What did you do when you were young?

The priests, bus drivers, tramps and judges,
waitresses, dustmen, politicians,
retired couples on the park bench
or the old teacher at our school
may have appeared quite harmless – still
one never knows for sure, and often
I felt like screaming (but bit my tongue):
What did you do when you were young?

Three of the villains took their lives,
the remaining twelve were executed.
All others got away as servants
who followed orders; in the meantime
they died of (or are dying of)
old age, and it’s a shame I can’t
believe these people have to face
their judgement yet.

The crimson streaks of morning
stretch low across the skies:
the sun sent his red riders
to tell us he will rise.

Then get your spirit ready
to share, to take and give,
and shed a thought to those ones
who aren’t allowed to live.

We know what we do when the waters are gathering round us,
our mind and our conscience are clear when we're tying the knot,
we know what we do when were finally pulling the trigger,
for looking at Life's opportunities, this is the best.

We won't give you hints or a sign that we want you to help us,
we won't beg for pity or hope to be rescued in time;
would your respect for us grow if you knew what we're up to,
and would you not only pretend that you suddenly care?

You dare to accuse us of causing you heartache and sorrow,
but why should we suffer a lifetime to set you at ease?
This curious meaningless world was not made for our people:
we know we are leaving for good and know certainly why!

She stood at the door of the caravan
and stared at the radiant sky
when he drove to college in his
first convertible.

She sat on a box in the car park
and peeled the potatoes for supper
when his limousine brought him to church
on his wedding day.

She played with her kids in the alley,
dressed in anything others could spare,
when he went to his child’s First Communion
in his favourite suit.

She lay in a grave by the roadside,
unmarked, with no headstone nor flowers,
when the mourners followed his hearse
all the way to the churchyard.

It's darker now than ever, and we bow
before the saviour of the world; he died,
the sun god sacrificed his life, but now,
three days after he has been crucified,
he'll rise again. Hosanna in the Highest!

Rebirth of Nature, thou must show the way
to the renewal of the life inside:
the longest night leads to the longest day,
the barren fields will bloom, and what has died
shall live again. Hosanna in the Highest!

Returning sun, thou welcomst at thy door
the changing seasons that will bring our fill;
we celebrated Christmas long before
Christianity, and certainly we will
long after it. Hosanna in the Highest!

When home is like a Latin test,
your mind is always strung,
and little buzzing imps infest
your bowels with their young.

When home is like a Latin test,
your folks will stay at bay:
their looks are narrowing your chest,
the things they do not say.

When home is like a Latin test,
you'll ask (and ask again)
for their applause - a painful quest,
and just as well in vain.

Instead of giving your very best,
you should desert their hells:
if home is like a Latin test,
your place is somewhere else.

They tell you that to make an omelette
you have to break some eggs,
but there is more to making omelettes
than simply breaking eggs.

The world is full of broken eggs,
and yet in Life’s canteen
where we’re fed up by many a cook
no omelette can be seen.

Let’s sack these chefs of humankind
and live on fruit and trout:
we’ve had no omelette to this day,
and we’ll be grand without!

The King’s men visit every day
and take our wine and bread,
our water and our meat away:
the lords have to be fed.

‘A happy lord has happy serfs’,
they tell each man and child;
our lords are happy, but we serfs
have never even smiled.

And so we went to see the King,
appealing at the gates
to give us what is ours and bring
some food back to our plates.

He scrutinised our rags: ‘I see
where you are coming from,
but it is not that simple; we
must show a bit aplomb.

‘I’m sure you think your lords are bored
and idle; that’s not so,
for there is more to being a lord
than you will ever know.

‘They gave you work; with due respect,
demanding more is rude,
and they can certainly expect
a bit of gratitude.

‘You know you ought to feed your lords
who sit around the spit,
and he’s a thief who eats or hoards
the tiniest little bit.

‘But once your lords have had their fill,
which will be soon, perhaps,
round overloaded spits you will
be eating golden scraps.

‘The more they have, the less they need,
but if you’re taking back
what’s theirs, the noose of your own greed
will tighten round your neck!’

And so we starve from day to day
and watch disgustedly
our masters’ barbarous display
of greed and gluttony.

They stuff their face with food galore
all day and all night long -
‘They cannot possibly eat more’,
we think; they prove us wrong.

They eat until their stomachs split
while watching us collapse
as we still kneel around their spit
and wait for golden scraps.

Promises. The surefire practice
to obtain without committing,
chasing dewdrops like a cactus
in the sun remains the fool.
But I shall claim what’s mine now, health permitting:
I want my forty acres and the mule!

Where the futures cast their shadows
though there is no light, they take us
captive in what should be meadows,
and the other captives drool:
‘Be patient, they will not forsake us.’
I want my forty acres and the mule!

When at last the doubting Thomas
was proved right again, and dust is
settling on another promise
where the promise masters rule,
I’ll stand before the king and call for justice:
I want my forty acres and the mule!

When we die as holy rollers
with the promise as the centre
of our being, they’ll console us:
‘We have failed you in the school
of Life, but once you leave this world, you’ll enter
a world with forty acres and a mule.’

Once buffalo roamed through the plains
who grazed there, peacefully
living amongst their families
as far as one could see.
Those herds, no matter how we try,
will not be seen again:
I hope God kept a backup world
when he created man.

The forests teemed with many birds
of every shape and size
who with their colours and their voice
delighted ears and eyes.
Their songs, no matter how we try,
will not be heard again:
I hope God kept a backup world
when he created man.

The beauty of this planet is
a pleasure of the past,
and we are told that on this Earth
nothing is meant to last.
But if indeed there’s this divine
creator’s master plan,
I’m sure he kept a backup world
when he created man.

I had a dream which was not all a dream.
-GEORGE BYRON

Two friends of mine got married; on their wedding
there was a band that played some merry tunes,
and people standing at the bar would listen
or talk to others. All around the house
the walls were decorated and the doors,
and everybody had a swinging time.
Then, later in the afternoon, some strangers
appeared and joined the party; no one knew them,
and no one wanted to. They all were dressed
in ragged sleeveless shirts and army trousers;
around their waist they wore a leather belt,
and in that belt a gun. They stood and drank,
their elbows on the counter; they were laughing
and watching others. Every now and then
they'd draw their guns and shoot one of the guests;
the few ones who complained were shot as well,
and soon the house was silent. While I stood
and drank my cocktail, I was anxious, hoping
they wouldn't notice me - I looked away
whene'er someone was killed. They did not seem
to pay attention to me, and the phone
was right beside me, so I picked it up
and dialled the number of the local police.
I told them everything that I had seen,
afraid in case they might be watching me -
but no one did, and several minutes later
the police arrived. They went up to the counter
and ordered drinks, and every now and then
they'd draw their guns and shoot one of the guests;
the few ones who complained were shot as well,
and soon the house was silent. Still the men
ignored my presence as it seemed, but when
I quietly tried to sneak out of the building,
their leader put his arm around me with
a friendly smile and offered me a drink.
We chatted and we laughed; I complimented
them on their aim, and after many hours
of tense companionship I slowly started
to feel quite safe, for I was sure they had
not been aware that it was I who called
the police earlier on. I once again
tried to sneak out while no one watched;
I lost my balance when I felt the cold
steel at my temple, tripped, and as I fell
he pulled the trigger.

Beloved Brothers of the Knowing Heart,
we have gathered on this summit,
not at a certain time, not in a particular place,
but in all parts of the Earth
and every era mankind has seen and will see,
to tell the world who we are!

We're a handful of new creations,
a whim of Nature, so to speak,
an experiment; and as Nature dismisses everything
that is not able to survive,
we'll have to fight, or we will be exterminated!

We have no leader apart from our spirit,
we have no followers apart from our mind,
and we are guided by determined will and intransigent love!

Whereas we strive for freedom, we're aware
that freedom is brought forth by life:
a dead man can't be free, no matter what they say -
therefore we value life at any stage,
opposed to the majority who doesn't,
who takes the life of others for whichever reason,
for from our own experience we know:
anybody could become one of us!

We will take an eye for an eye, and not two;
we will take a tooth for a tooth, not a jaw.
If our neighbour tries to steal our corn, we'll steal his;
if our neighbour tries to kill us, we'll kill him.

We have to protect life from those who take it,
but yet the only ones who have the right to take theirs
are their victims. Remember always:
anybody could become one of us!

We will pick up a gun and rise against oppressors -
not for a country or a nation,
not for the government or bourgeoisie,
but for ourselves and the ones we love!
We take the right to destroy any oppressor
with all his executives
to gain and defend our freedom!

We are frugal with our thunderbolts! Why should we strike
somebody down who in a few decades will be forgotten,
if with this very thunderbolt we could disrupt
a whole millennium of decadence?

How could he feel the earth beneath his feet
who doesn't know the Gospel according to Philotes,
who never worshipped himself in the Temple of Beauty,
who never saved a life and felt sorry for it,
who never went home when it wasn't there?

We've seen the gods, all dressed in women's clothes,
we've quaffed the cup of humankind,
we've grasped the spirit of the world in naked flesh,
and we've deflowered every claim for truth!

We feel no hatred for the servile masses,
those carnivores in flesh and herbivores in mind,
just as the lone wolf feels no hatred for the pack;
we only know our place is somewhere else,
and so we look upon them with love and pity
and sometimes jealousy. But still we know:
anybody could become one of us!

Afraid of thoughts they could not handle,
as they'd destroy the pillars of their assembly hall,
they close their doors to Life;
instead of flying on the wings of passion,
they lift their clubs against each other and enrol in
Satan's it-hued teatime force.

They call themselves human, but still there is
too much armpit-scratching and banana-throwing
to distinguish them from their fathers.
We know the advantages of their frowzy homeliness and common enmities.
It's easier to follow than to question.
It's easier to lead than to answer.

One day we'll take over, or we'll be gone,
an evolved species or a deserted freak.
We're only a handful, maybe not fit for survival -
what are the lion's chances against a pack of hyenas?
Yet we will stay in our place and not yield,
nobly succeeding or nobly perishing,
with forbearing pride, for we are still aware:
anybody could become one of them!

White man, the million trees that fed
a people for a thousand years,
the forest of their life is dead
since you have claimed it for your peers;
you have completed your grand theft,
chopped the last tree for lumber, not
forgetting its last fruit and left
a desert in its place. This spot
will feed its people nevermore;
now they come knocking at your door
for help to get them back on track:
don’t give them alms! Just pay them back.

Not only did you take their few
resources like their food and trees,
you even took their people, too!
Abducted from their families,
the slaves were forced to work and breed
like cattle to create your vast
fortunes, and once these men were freed,
you left them penniless. The past,
you claim, once dealt with, counts no more;
now they come knocking at your door
for help to get them back on track:
don’t give them alms! Just pay them back.

You rob the land, the gold, the oil,
the coal, all goods of any worth
from every place your hands can soil,
from every country on this Earth,
then point at those that you deprive
of wealth and dignity and say:
I’ll loan you what I robbed, but strive
to pay your interest every day!
With nothing left, they pay no more,
and now they’re knocking at your door
for help to get them back on track:
don’t give them alms! Just pay them back.

And you who owe the white man naught
except the finger, when at last
all debts are settled (what a thought!),
you’ll live in comfort, and the past
will seem an unrelenting trial
rewarded by eternal bliss,
by growing wealth and fortune while
the white man thirsts and starves since his
‘developed countries’ are no more;
he will come knocking at your door
for help to get him back on track:
don’t give him alms! Don’t let him back!

Evolution works through constant changes,
crossing creatures of each type and race:
any species that refused to mingle
disappeared from Earth without a trace.

Ancient royal families were staying
to themselves and married their own kind:
getting weaker by the generation,
all their lines eventually declined.

Nature is a permanent creator
and improves its creatures all the time.
Racism is incest; if continued,
man will be extinct before his prime.

The cave is still there and the paintings within,
the seeds they consumed and the tools that they used,
the bones of their prey and the stones on their graves;
the river, the river is rolling.

Their images, sealed by the skin of the earth,
will always be lifelessly lying between
the mountains of skulls from the wars of their gods;
the river, the river is rolling.

The smoke disappeared and the chimney decays,
the cross falls apart and the church bells are mute,
the houses deserted and covered with weeds;
the river, the river is rolling.

The Ogre is at peace with us.
For dozens of generations
he tortured us and ate our children,
destroyed our harvests and stole our cattle;
he burnt our homes and slaughtered our kin,
enslaved us and forced us to fight in his wars.
But finally we managed to defeat him:
we live in peace with the Ogre.

The Ogre is trading with us.
After all those years that we've been on our own,
trying to build a new home on the ruins he left us,
trying to cultivate the charred fields,
we rose like a phoenix from the ashes, and now
we're doing business with the Ogre.

The Ogre protects us.
As long as he lets us live in his shadow,
no one will dare to provoke or attack us:
we're safe in the shelter of our friend.
So should we not repay his kindness
today, get armed and help him in
his everlasting struggle against children?
We're ready to join forces with the Ogre!

In better days the Bearded People
lived happily in the green fields of Harmony Hill,
and dancingly, lovingly, drinkingly, fightingly passing
their days, they thought of no evil.

But, gazing with envy upon their rich meadows and orchards,
watching their harvest being too full to be gathered,
the Shaved People assembled one day at the bottom
of Harmony Hill and decided to conquer the land.

They invaded the hill with their army at night
and slaughtered the children, the men and the women in their beds:
the few who survived had to serve the Shaved People,
and while the invaders were selling their fruits to the neighbours,
they starved to death.

There was food for the Shaved People - not for the Bearded.
There were rights for the Shaved People - not for the Bearded.

For aeons they slaughtered each other:
the Shaved killed the Bearded to strengthen their position,
the Bearded killed the Shaved to free their country.
They massacred men and women and children
as long as their facewear made them an enemy.

One day, at the top of Harmony Hill, their leaders
met face to face, and, lifting their spears to start the battle,
abused one another with voices that shrieked with excitement.
'We've lived on this hill ever since; we were happy
until you invaded our country and butchered our people,
until you enslaved us and stole all our wealth from this land!
Go home now and leave us in peace, or we'll fight you
until your race is exterminated or ours!' -
'We did not invade this hill' , screamed the other,
'we were born, we were bred on Harmony Hill:
there's no other home that we could or we would ever go to.
Don't blame the Shaved People for the deeds of their fathers;
they may have brought us here by their conquest,
but Harmony Hill is our home, and it always will be!'
They looked closely into each other's eyes
and straightened and hesitated and trembled
and finally lowered their spears.
'But what can we do?', they sadly said to each other,
'as long as there's different facewears, the war will go on!' -
'But why should we have different facewears at all?
If we all wore moustaches, we'd all be the same!'
So the Shaved and the Bearded People laid down their weapons
and grew moustaches.

The next generations will still talk about the feast
that followed on Harmony Hill:
Moustached People sharing their wine and their fruits and their lives,
not asking the previous facewear of any brother
sitting beside them!

- But in hidden holes in the ground of Harmony Hill,
anxiously lurking like rats on the pounce,
there are Shaved People still and Bearded People, armed to their teeth,
waiting for their time to come!

The servant sings the songs of freedom
in local pubs and cheers,
for this improves a man's digestion
and adds the spice to beers.
-HEINRICH HEINE

Standing at the bar, I listened
to their talk of revolution,
and their sweaty faces glistened
as they said: 'The casts remain -
our weapons aim at every institution
that keeps the slave in bonds without the chain!'

'Bring the government of neighbours;
we don't want a lord or master!' -
'And the land on which one labours
and the harvest must be his!' -
'Those goddamn jerks who tell us to work faster
don't value Life and Freedom as it is!' -

'They allege we have no morals,
being used to their inflation.' -
'Till the gallows or the laurels
we will fight for anarchy',
announced their leader to his congregation,
'for every man and woman shall be free!'

Soon the pints became more shallow,
so he raised his arm, and staring
at the stump I heard him bellow:
'One more round for all my friends!'
I watched them closer as they kept on swearing
and realised that none of them had hands.

We gazed at the sea and debated,
as they burnt our town to the ground,
the beauty of God’s creation
in everything around.

We basked in the sun that the Maker
made to bring light and life to this earth
as they butchered our friends in their houses
and spilled their blood on the hearth.

When they poisoned our water and cattle
and the others prepared for the worst,
we sat and admired the sunset,
and now we hunger and thirst.

Firstly, there is the working class:
with every building,
street, bridge and fountain
the future will remember.

Secondly, there’s the artist’s class:
with every painting,
song, film and poem
the future will remember.

And then we have the ruling class:
taking our money,
spending our money,
it soon will be forgotten.

You rule the country in our name,
you give our money to the rich,
and you tell us that we're to blame
if we stay poor and others rich
- do you ever dream?

You're owner of our company
and like to watch us while we work,
we pile your profits patiently
till we're too old and weak to work
- do you ever dream?

You are executive of the state,
and you believe you got the right
to follow orders very straight
against those fighting for their right
- do you ever dream?

So you are victim of this game,
and there won't ever be a change,
for you shut up and bear the shame:
you pay for them, they keep the change
- do you ever dream?

So I have to leave my friends and beloved ones
to kill my brothers and sisters
who happen to live under the jurisdiction
of another government,
and it's unlikely that I'll ever return.

In a few years
one of the parties will hoist the white flag
over our graves.

And those who sent me out to die
will meet at a marble table,
sign a paper and
shake hands.

Pro-Life is usually associated
with people who subscribe to a religion
such as Christianity, and who are taught
to think that way and who may think or not.
And I don’t talk about those hypocrites
who justify, decree or execute
post-natal murders for their own religion,
be it that of a god or race or nation,
I talk about the few ones who believe
in equal rights for all of their God’s creatures.

And yet, though they oppose the selfish slaughter
of human beings, their belief still renders
hope for the child in some unspecified
time in the future when, as they believe,
he or she will be rising from the dead.
We atheists don’t share that faith and therefore
have one more motive to defend their lives;
the reason to be pro-life shouldn’t be
religion or the deep disgust at lefties
but a profound respect for human life!

We don’t believe that there’s a second chance,
a second life for those who die in wombs,
we don’t believe in that divine accountant
who, with one stroke, will set the balance straight:
we don’t think there’s a possibility
of justice or of reconciliation
in the spiritual word, and that is why
we should feel even stronger when it comes to
the right to live on Earth, because we know:
we only live once - that’s if we live at all!

Since man exists, all children play together,
but, prompted by their greedy wives, their dads
would covet their own brothers’ land and cattle
and mercilessly club each other’s heads.

The clans that thus emerged attacked their neighbours
and took control of everything they had,
creating tribes which, constantly expanding,
would rather count their loot than count their dead.

In ever larger units they were striving
to conquer other countries, war by war,
and soon the warriors didn’t know the faces
of those they killed in battle any more.

The chiefs that won and came to rule a county
soon foddered those with a more ambitious mind
who forced them into nations, states and empires
where their prestige and influence declined.

And when the world was just a handful of empires,
it was decided to reset the score -
each risked it all to fight for world dominion
in one (what pleonasm!) bestial war.

After that war most empires fell asunder,
the two remaining ones now cleared the field;
all nations, with the mask of independence
crudely shoved on their faces, had to yield.

Too scared, those empires wouldn’t fight each other
directly, but they both would claim their share,
destroy all lands opposed to being exploited
and plant their little Hitlers everywhere.

They tried to starve each other, they were slaying
each other’s satraps in the light of day
until the Russian Bear died of exhaustion
and left his empire to the bird of prey.

Left without equal foes, the last survivor
and victor kills the butterflies he finds;
he squashes ants to demonstrate his power
and keep his deadly talons on our minds.

Now the American Eagle rules this planet
apart from where the Sleeping Dragon lies;
he only fears his enemies may dwindle
or that one day the Dragon may arise.

What Man has striven for since his creation
is now complete, his quest is near its end:
the ultimate supremacy of one ruler,
the world’s command and power in one hand!

One world, one empire! One führer for all nations,
one leader to decide our destiny -
but History is written by the winner,
and he proclaims his chains have made us free!

What next? Either the Dragon will surrender
or lose a battle for world dominance.
Man has achieved his goal; without a challenge
his empire’s bound to end in decadence.

And when that happens, every little chieftain
will see his chance to conquer and get crowned;
assured that this time things will work out better,
mankind will settle for another round.

They say he'll never make me happy,
and I should leave again;
I didn't marry to be happy,
I married to complain.

'How do you cope with a man like him
who has no love to show
and treats you like you aren't there?
- That's if you're lucky, though.

'How can you live with one who argues
with you on St Valentine's?'
Remarks like that, believe you me,
go down like Ballantine's.

Their pity makes my life worthwhile,
although they'll never guess:
the sympathy they show for me,
that is my happiness!

We look down on Nature's creation, and this
is what we enquire: What makes man what he is?

Some say we evolved from the apes, using tools,
some say we matured by agreeing on rules,

Some say man is only one part of the whole,
some say that a god gave us spirit and soul,

Some say we are more through the power to think,
some say that to superman we are the link,

Some say we're just carnivores, killing about:
they kill to survive while we kill to wipe out.

On ruins and blood of our brothers we feast:
the will to destroy separates us from beast.

They’re sitting at the table
with empty heart and mind,
not really there, unable
to struggle or to find.
There’s many a silent moocher
with his eyes fixed on his drink
and his back turned towards the future
who only drinks to think.

And as he keeps on drinking
to the state of mind he’s in,
he also keeps on thinking
of the life that should have been.
And it’s here they drink their potions
to forget their hopes and fears
with a fistful of emotions
and a pocket full of tears.

The piano man keeps playing
with poignancy and phlegm,
and sure it goes without saying
that he is one of them.
The barman never mentions
a family or wife;
some bet their meagre pensions
on whether he’s a life.

And when he ceases trading
and dims the gloomy light,
they leave and soon are fading
in the dreaded peace of night.
And it’s here they drink their potions
to forget their hopes and fears
with a fistful of emotions
and a pocket full of tears.

When the bustle and noise of the city around
pierce my mind with their beat and monotonous sound
and the voice in my head sings her ominous tunes
I retire from the town to the peace of the dunes.

Where the buttercups melt in the sun, where the skies
and the bluebells that silently ring in my eyes
spread the sound of a higher serenity
I lie down to the song of our lady the sea.

For pacific souls in Atlantic domains
this gate to the other realm still remains:
in the sun’s gentle light and at night the pale moon’s,
there is nothing on Earth like the peace of the dunes.

There’s something about sedimentary rock
at the shore and on hillocks and mountains I climb,
addressing me from a celestial clock
like a postcard from the Dawn of Time.

The shells and the bones of those aeons gone by
created these mountains of limestone around
when mankind was a glimpse in a hominoid's eye
and a door to a world without man could be found.

Small creatures, for millions of years to this day,
have shaped and arranged this whole range and this land
through which mighty glaciers were forcing their way
to the sea where their travels would come to an end.

Yet the moss on those rocks bears the message for me
that life, though it's short, is determined to last,
for, attaching itself to the rocks that I see,
there's new life that's growing on life of the past.

He staggers over cans and stones beside
the dirty bay, as helpless as a chick
that leaves the nest – but he will leave this world.
His lifeless eyes are focussed on the ground
while carefully he measures his next step
as though he knows that each could be his last.
Once more he spreads his wings in an attempt to
remind the world of bygone days when he
ruled reed and river, but he slips and needs
the wings to stop his fall, and gracelessly
tries to stand up while his unkempt vibrissae
like Santa’s long white beard swings in the breeze,
his plumage looks as shabby as a vulture’s
poor outfit as he tries to find a grip
for his unsteady claws. I wish that I
could help this creature, but I know I can’t
and turn away from him with pensive thoughts;
it’s sad to see a heron die.

The fledgling wants to stay in nest
all day, but Mother Bird stays firm:
‘At cockcrow vermin tastes the best -
the early bird catches the worm!’

But as he spreads his wings, he’s hit
by a worm-eaten branch and cries;
the damage renders him unfit
to keep on living, and he dies.

The worms that populate this place
rejoice and gladly spread the word
and leave their holes and crawl a race:
the early worm catches the bird!

Why shouldn’t God play dice? How does he pass
the idle hours in between creations,
after his angels went to sleep or work,
and he desires some adult entertainment?

Why shouldn’t God play dice? It is a vice
to gamble when relying on the outcome,
but here’s a man who couldn’t lose at all –
and if he did, he’d have no trouble paying.

Why shouldn’t God play dice? Has he no right
to improvise whenever he’s creating,
can he not do whate’er he wants to do
without requiring scientists’ approval?

Miss Fortune is so nice and meek,
but she is always on her way -
she´ll kiss you softly on the cheek
to leave again and say 'Good Day'.

Misfortune on the other hand
will rest against her breast your head:
she´ll see in you her closest friend,
sit down and knit beside your bed.

(Translation of Heinrich Heine's Lamentation)

My daddy's name is Santa Claus.
He is laid back and mild,
and you may think I would have cause
to be a happy child.

I get more presents, this is true,
and though this may appear
as an advantage unto you:
I see him once a year!

I envy all those kids whose dads
are living on the dole,
for they have time for their own lads -
mine's working at the Pole.

On Christmas Eve I'll wash my face,
a carol I will sing,
and then sit at the fire-place
to hear the sleigh bells ring.

I'll wait until I see his boot
appearing on the grate;
my mom will dust his crimson suit
and tell him that he's late.

He'll say that he is on his way
to bring the toys he made,
and that he'll take me there one day
to learn our fathers' trade.

He'll kiss me by the Christmas tree
and tell me I'm all right,
but he has no more time for me
than for my mom that night.

Walk softly on the mellow ground
and find a place to rest
your bones, because the slightest sound
might wake another guest.

This is a peaceful land. Our King
in silence leads his flock;
on Sundays we're allowed to sing
and hymn till twelve o'clock.

With milk and honey we are fed,
fed each and every day,
our bed is fluffy cotton, spread
upon a sheaf of hay.

Don't you admire the stars and sun
and hills? There is so much.
Those beauties shall be looked upon -
they vanish with a touch.

So praise our King, but drop your voice,
and treat your hungry eyes,
and let your weary heart rejoice:
you're now in Paradise.

The pilgrims of the past, with faces
that glow excitedly,
visit a lot of ancient places
that shaped the destiny
of their big heroes; they don't get tired
of going where poets are laid,
where famous artists were inspired
or history was made.

The streets of Sligo from which Bram Stoker
conceived his Dracula
have gone; today the fearsome croaker
wouldn't think of a count that bizarre.
The Star Club in Hamburg, widely known,
where the Beatles made it big,
is replaced by a posh memorial stone
where no one plays a gig.

I'd watch the sun who once has smiled
on Helen of Troy's golden hair,
the moon who inspirited Oscar Wilde
at the foot of the marble stair,
the stars whose rays long time ago
on Beethoven did fall,
and, watching them, I'm glad to know
they haven't changed at all.

The present's the conclusion
of things that we have done,
the past is an illusion
eight minutes from the sun.

The future is a crater
whose depths we cannot shun,
while History's a traitor
eight minutes from the sun.

We take or miss our chances
as Truth is on the run,
and still we trust our senses
eight minutes from the sun.

One day, footloose and fancy-free,
I leant against an ancient tree
right in the middle of the park
and cut my name into his bark.

His branches closed around me, and
he groaned: ‘Son, you must understand
that I have reason to object
to such displays of disrespect!

‘I was around through Henry’s reign
when terror ruled, and sword, and chain,
when he controlled his subjects’ lives
and killed his critics and his wives;

‘When Indians hunted buffalo
across the plains and didn’t know
that soon enough they’d share their fate
until the time it was too late;

‘When France replaced the tyranny
of its corrupted monarchy
with tyrants of another kind
that left humanity behind.

‘You ought to show respect to me:
I’ve seen more than you’ll ever see!’
And I replied: ‘This may be true,
but you will die before I do.’

They've got their maps, they follow signs
or travel in a group,
they close their eyes and twirl around
or join a marching troop.

They're led, they lead, they change their ways,
they ask their heart and soul
for guidance, but the lot of them
appears to know their goal.

There's many a voice that’s asking me
to flee or to sojourn:
a crossroads every hundred yards,
I wonder where to turn.

Sometimes I'd like to cut a path
through woods on marshy ground,
but then again I might get lost
without a friend around.

The others seem to have no doubts:
some run and some go slow,
some care, some don't, but nonetheless
they have a place to go.

I look at them and at myself
with a despairing smile,
for as there are so many ways,
no goal can be worthwhile.

When the birches turn red in November
and the salmon are ceasing to leap
and the streams fill with rain from the mountains
it is time for all creatures to sleep.

To escape both the cold and the darkness
man and beast close their eyes to the world,
for the world now is dreaming and waiting
for the craturs that Nature has furled.

And when colour returns to the forests
and the salmon are seen in the lake
and the daffodils herald Life’s triumph
we should think about whether to wake.

Mountain:
My bidding must be done, tree!
I’m ancient, large and tall;
I dominate the country
while you are weak and small.

Birch:
It seems that you’re not thinking
ahead; it won’t stay so,
for you’re forever shrinking,
and I’ll forever grow!

Like a windswept old tree in the wilderness,
with his scraggy long arms in the sky,
with his bark a bazaar for the elements
and his roots undisclosed to the eye,

Who was guarding his plain throughout centuries
when our forefathers crawled from the caves
and established the rule of humanity
and first put the dead into graves,

We all stand in this world with our loneliness
for some decades with nothing to do,
to be cut with a chainsaw in wintertime,
and to burn for an hour or two.

Neptune's sons and daughters in their castle deep,
rulers of the waters, have to go to sleep,
whisp'ring with the west wind, whisp'ring softly, whisp'ring.

And the Queen of Twilight with a warm caress
brings you dreams of skylight in her wanting dress,
rustling with the birches, rustling slightly, rustling.

Once our life decembered, we have found our spot:
some will be remembered, some will be forgot,
fading with the sunset, fading gently, fading.

The dying trade was weak, her servants silent,
but only those who sang her death song died;
the others scorn the joys these realms provide
and hope for others on another island.

Instead of Beauty they all worship Duty,
and men apologise for being there,
grim raven-collared toads croak everywhere,
but there's no minstrel who would sing of Beauty.

Beauty is gone long since - the sickly pigeon
survived the graceful swan, as now we know.;
who would have thought a hundred years ago
that Poetry would die before Religion?

To follow in my footsteps, you’ll have to go ahead:
you cannot follow me if you follow me.