The wrong ones

Even an angel may lack here.
Somewhere in the distance, the rain forest.
In the evening's dusk of the steppe
a wrinkled god is waiting,
placing a hand on
his dirty shoulder.

An angel may be devilish,
undemanding, a fool attending receptions. 
Let us allow the driver to flee
with bloodied shirt.
And let us acknowledge it - the pain
of all the lonely perpetrators!

But they may tell themselves
that they have killed the dead.
All's been concluded then
that one could say
at the end of their dream
as to how to share   the bread and the meat.

Secret materialism of power!
So, slowly, he grinds the better world into an idea
he cannot enrich himself by.
The guilt book of the false angels
is the book opened wide by this epoch.
And nobody to absolve: no populace, no emperor, no tribune.
 
 
 
 
 
 

next page