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26
III mov.:
’αιτίαι
(Das Stockholm Krematorium)
And then, at the end, what? Darkness, death,
ashes: nothing to fear, then…
but here we end up as dust long before that,
as very fine, thin filings,
specks of dust flying all around:
the scales of a snake skin,
the
this is the end
, the squeaks of fear,
the signatures on the contracts, the “I am busy”,
packaged and mortgaged time
as if it were already ours,
the waiting of all those cigarettes
the delightful jokes of calcium and carbon
(the
other than I am
is already undone after seven years:
anything but
solve
and
resurrectio carum)
lucid consternation for the past
(and ask me whether I hate promises).
The longer evenings, almost without shadows,
our tales as pounds of flesh
bitten by wheels or melted over years
by the bitter acid of time,
fear in the veins which kills,
glass angel with diamond smile,
sharp cutting steps over our sighs,
looks, thoughts, words and voices
fixated in the crystal of glasses: