Federico

Federico

Those men of gold still drink

Silver-whisky next to the volcanoes,

Their cities of wire and death

Their life a life-long Sunday.

Captain Nestares murdering still, Lead-head

His name exchangeable Souls made of gloss,

Graves in the sand and meadows of old blood,

Viznar everywhere.

 

Tears when we are alone,

Open eyes and a bitter wound, Inflamed, inflaming.

There is no forgetting.

Under hyazinths and reeds,

You, brother of all,

Your tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow Fire from your hands

Proclaiming the resurrection

Of the dissected butterflies.

–Jürgen Schneider


Poetry Writing

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