A foot drenched in blood
And a Heart on fire.
Building of Justice is the square-shaped tray
decorated with figures of lions
they look, they know.
Finally, the lions are like candied almonds,
They open their stone mouth
to spit an almond, then another, until the rain of sugar almonds
fell to the pillars and bloody benches
dotted with visitors with seminal faces
like a white canvas They stare at lions and sing to trees
doodling the poetic Justice
to lickerish carcasses winners.
Everywhere is written Justice, she breathes
she drums, she shocks violently with syllables,
annulling the bitterness from the surrounding
Court watchdogs, cattle and lions
tantalize nicks, scoundrels, maybe an occasional innocence,
(don’t bend the truth now, you barefaced liar)
whether innocence could ever be caught rushing
with pack of mangy mutts at the wrong place?
So, I stand accused.
In the beginning there was a number and it created harmony
Compacted into 10 heavenly veins.
To him the music – owes.
To him – love owes.
To him – the truth owes.
Each idol in the head– to him the Holy owes.
The Number feeds the Ethiopian children with monads in the midst of Green Africa
Cele-kula (this you must have known!) is built of Numbers,
It is rolled by children down elysian fields of the Righteous
Number rules as well over the body of Osiris,
The Number testified about remaining loaves
On the bodies of hunchbacks and the poor
Which like dark figures of Calais await the whirlwind of Justice
To banish them from the asylum of Doubt.
Number knows of tomorrows and of yesterdays
Number knows who you are, and who am I.
The Number traverses the army of armies of Amen of Libya
While the sheep bleat and search for wolves.
The army hesitates
And swimmers hesitate
Оh, my geometric sea.
THE CHOIR OF IDEALISTS:
О, Pythagorean triad, show yourself!
Who are you?
What are you?
Have you impoverished for us?
Have you thrown away all your mo – Hopes?
I came to you as a golden calf and you did not recognize me!
There would be no Hymns of the Nile without – Number,
The Colossus of Rhodes would not be without– Number,
Spartacus, yet him, Liberal, not without the – number!
A number, it is the bald, mad poets
And cotter bolts!
Silly, mad, those crazier, the craziest and… Preludes!
Number – arose from Earth for Saturn.
Fell from heavens for Thoth.
CHOIR OF MATERIALISTS:
Take us to the Grand Cut – to tailor holy dresses the day before the Holy day:
For emperors, and their wet nurses
Once again for wet nurses
For shahs , patricians,
Eagles of gold, aghas, tarragons
And other Proposers?
Number – it is harmony, king and cage for verses.
Even some Jacobite is a Number – scarecrow for the Girondist.
And pipsqueak, of course, Antic C. Ма(n)sоn from feces of the Greek revolution.
Number, those are all beginnings
The golden section of time in caves
Number, those are all rejected kisses,
Number – measure of doubtfulness and laughter of the insane paladin,
A tucked in courtesan.
Go to the temple of Eros so they shoot an arrow to your chest.
Let all Lunacies fall in love with you
And lunacy enamored to create itself anew within you
And crazy Eros will look at you
Will take out the heart from the womb of the ideal Semele
Shot, walk down the shores of the Peruvian sea
That is how freedom from the Number is deceitfully summed!
Do not envision the Number divided (do not even think about a fraction)
Remember the ten, with a laugh.
That is how Pythagoras counted as well
Counted all the way to ten
And ten shores
And ten dreams
And ten bridges
And ten lunatics
– Pythagoras finishes;
Forbidden to dip horse bean into the number.
I am Etalides and I have been in… in… plants.
I am Pyrrhus and I sojourned inside the rotten womb of gluttonous emperors.
I am Euphorb and I blinded Homer
Because into the Number much like the Sun you cannot gaze long.
I murdered Achilles,
Tarried within Paris,
I cannot claim I have not within you as well.
And the divers keenly look for him,
Beneath the surface are the sunken ships
Carcasses of Hyperborea
Colonnade of martyrs
„The Number, those are all heavens” – calculated Pythagoras
and discovered the golden thigh in the Theater.
image found here
You bite the poem under the tongue and words which made reminiscences into dust
They do not understand you, actrisa.
It is time for aktshluss
You were chewed by the populist phenomenology
Of verses devoid of poetry
In the band of false troubadours you cannot be actor primarium patrium
Aristocrat among poetesses do not forget that the Arabs divined your fate with arrows
Do not worry, Leila, I enjoyed reading your verses,
I Samira, the trade woman from the satrapy of forgotten empires
On my breasts I bared the burden heavier than the grandiose pillars from Hatra
Forever banished from the cradle of two folk I belonged to by the disfavor of Alan and Beog who found a dying city
Do not worry, Leila, with you are Greeks and Sarmatians and your name is nailed into the Grecian affiches
Announced by Sophocles on fliers and billboards of alternative theaters
And Caligula dances with your Greek single act dramas on Palatine games
Do not worry, Leila, unpopular poetess in a world which you overcame
With the miracle of discovering the secret home in which you mastered silences
Do not forget everything is a matter of injustice because there is no justice
Do not forget the world became a mine field and an insult
Do not forget another world will be chiseled by your verses of immortal longing
Do not worry, Leila, there will be time for all those who hotly growl on the mention of your name to understand
The unbearable ease of existence and the feather of your French Alexandrine.
time is precious
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