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letra de evil - necromishka

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while the red spittle of the grape-shot
whistles all day in the infinite blue sky:
while the battalions, scarlet or green, fly
by the king who jeers, en m-sse, into the pot:

while the terrible stupidity grinds and crushes
and makes a smoking heap of a thousand men:
poor dead! in summer, among the rushes
in your joy, sacred nature, who created them

there’s a god, who laughs at altar-cloths
of damask, incense, and great gold chalices:
who dozes to hosannas for lullaby

and wakes when mothers, gathered in their grief
weeping under their old black bonnets, sigh
and yield him the coin knotted in their handkerchief

while the terrible stupidity grinds and crushes
and makes a smoking heap of a thousand men:
poor dead! in summer, among the rushes
in your joy, sacred nature, who created them!

- necromishka

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