The third world

Damned of the earth are stand­ing up
and pris­on­ers of star­va­tion
are stand­ing also up
tall black beau­ti­ful are stand­ing up
like dead cypress­es
the dump of the world is stand­ing up
in the scorched savannas

they are col­lect­ing their bones
stretch once again their skin
lis­ten­ing to the hum­ming of despair
rat­tling with their cof­fee bod­ies
with­out a crum­ble of strength for anger and rebel­lion
they are rais­ing their eyes to the dry sky
their hands towards brave europes
their heads towards promised americas

and the world is turn­ing nev­er­the­less
in salons of glit­ter­ing cities
dust is snow­ing slow­ly
while dead chil­dren are falling
to the tem­po of car engines
to the dithyra­mb of hys­ter­i­cal shop­ping
to the rhythm of con­stant diets
to the nice pro­to­col of ser­mons
to the buzzing of stock exchanges
and into the tiny morsels the first world is crum­bling
and the sec­ond
and the third
it’s spin­ning around indif­fer­ent­ly
this wretched world
one and only
Mediter­ranean, Mediterranean

When the old snake hiss­es
in the cracked church
and the flut­tery flock spreads to the sun
and oranges roll down the stairs
the blood of toma­toes will spurt on the square
glis­ten­ing olives will shine on tables
under ole­an­ders cicadas will chirp
fis­sured figs will fall into our laps
and we will be sit­ting under swollen grapes
when the juice of pome­gran­ates will splash
and the bosoms of ripe women will bloom
and san­dals will clat­ter
and dress­es will flut­ter
like sails in the storm
and the ancient mar­ble will clang
and ships will anchor
and the mar­ket will mur­mur
and the linen will dance
the slow tan­go of the south
and the sea will bend under fish swarms
and nets will swell
while masts shine on in the heat
and palms and life
fall into the red twi­light
the evening of fies­ta and fever will spread
into the night of sin and the car­ni­val of plen­ty
before in the ear­ly morn­ing the gyp­sies come
to col­lect rub­bish
on the fan­cy beach­es of the white latins
while on the waste open seas
from the shaky rafts only black hands
will cry and long for the false par­adise
Bil­dungsro­man
(The Balka­ns, 1990–2000)

Through the long streets of this raw hol­low
a horde of young hye­nas is walk­ing
hot phos­pho­rus is ooz­ing from their eyes
and on the asphalt there fly siz­zling
icy knives under their steps.

Till yes­ter­day they used to play mar­bles
with the eyes they picked up on the street
when­ev­er they crawled out for a moment
from the base­ments of fine ruined hous­es.
They also played hang­man
until they once saw a hanged man on the street
and it became bor­ing
then they played catch-me-if-you-can
but many of them got caught for­ev­er
so they got sick of it
then they played hide-and-seek
but their par­ents put their hands on their eyes
even when it was no play­time
and told them not to spy with their lit­tle eye
turn their head away hide in the far­thest cor­ner
and count as long as they can…
that was not much of a game.
They tried to play cow­boys and indi­ans
but they couldn’t agree who lives in a reser­va­tion
they played balls between two fires
till it burnt through on both sides
they played
crouch­ing
shrink­ing
trem­bling in the dark
and some­times craned their necks from their lairs
to see a patch of the sky and stars
(when their breasts were swelling from sense­less hope)

But here they are
pop­ping out from shab­by holes
like hun­gry beasts
the veins flick­er­ing on their taut limbs
they show grin­ning their tapered fangs
blood bub­bling in their eyes
they are com­ing
warmed-up played-up
car­ry­ing clot­ted anger in their stiff bones
and bring­ing
(catch them if you can)
com­plete­ly new
rules of the game