Last post, lost past
‘General, should an old cannon still remain on your
ruined ramparts, bombard us
with clumps of dry earth. [...] Make the city eat its own dust.’
Arthur Rimbaud (Une saison en enfer, «Alchimie du verbe»)
I
A promise from them is worth less
than a seed in the ground
a snowflake in the air
a droplet on the rock
but a single, icy word
can suffice for a grave
the body of my mother
disappeared through the ice-hole
she was caught in the
ice
like a fish, I saw her
silvery countenance
the last thing she
said was: ‘son
the songs they sing
make my heart wring’
the final sound
was how she drowned
the men stood there clumsily dancing (like a class having a swimming
lesson)
blue with cold (teeth-chattering) round the ice-hole
we howled
in their wake
the prince hung icicles
on their skin
this is the Cocytus
frozen river
in the depths of hell
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