43 / 198
43
Prologue
ou – swallowers of the scepters of power, I sing of
you, and below, in the Daugava, the water cries,
where you have drowned your dreams. Wounds are
torn open, and sparks become black, making you cold at
the bonfire. Open your eyes locked shut, I will in singing do
tricks for you, from an honored troubadour be transformed
to a clown and welter rags in mud, and you can trample me
underfoot. A stanza here and there will be dedicated to
those who suck dreams through thick draperies, I am their
deputy, I – black morphine, strategist of recklessness, just
listen to me and free up your nerves and throats, I will like
a butterfly search out a grey field and with fine proboscis
drone over the rushes, for my friend is a bumblebee, hidden
in green forest, and all around only late morning, and,
twirling tablets into mouths, I extend myself, turning my
gaze to the Highest, and of burning angels running in
flames I will plead forgiveness. Cobwebs wrap my wing, my
jug empty, no longer the warmth of childhood, only gloomy
and cool hung-over morning.
The Spinner of Tales to the Court
Y