Kay Hassan
-From the Old House.
(De quel Age es-tu, Lord.)*
Oh, Grandfather’s mulberry,
How old are you?
O' heavenly ghost how ld you are?
Your giant trunk’s hollowing , Oh, miracles of the ancient valley,
Yet, shooting sprigs ,and sprouting,
To shade the medieval hand-mills,
And the fence of the holy stone
On which Your lord’s body
Was bathed for the last time
De quel Age es-tu,
I know how many years
You bore our burden, howls, and screams,
and how long, listened to Mother’s Lullaby;
Your giant trunk’s hollowing , Oh, miracles of the ancient valley,
Yet, shooting sprigs ,and sprouting,
To shade the medieval hand-mills,
And the fence of the holy stone
On which Your lord’s body
Was bathed for the last time
De quel Age es-tu,
I know how many years
You bore our burden, howls, and screams,
and how long, listened to Mother’s Lullaby;
for Her Sick new-born in Hammocks
You endured our unkindness
Our piercing squeaks-when
Plucked your unripe fruits
And did many bad things with you ;
Un-rhymed, and dis-harmonized
the sparrows’ chirps.
Then we hung saw like ropes of swing.
Around your neck.
And for so many years
Wound around your wrist
Rough halters for
Calves’ tanned skins
. (our butter maker.)
And slaughtered under your shade
For Abraham’s son
A thousand heads of life-stock
And ripped their fleshes
With the heaviest choppers,
And most often barbecued
Their kidneys and testicles,
With ceremonial moods,
Screaming.
‘De quel Age es-tu, lord’
But,
Despite all our crimes
You said. ‘Whatsoever, dears.’
Again and again,
Until The thunder
Hit thy trunk
And split it
Into equal halves,
Sprawled on the ground
Like an integrated Adam,
Thighs open to the sky,
Having the Ditch of Earth
Between thy mountainous loins,
Henceforth;we understood,
How the motherland’s vagina exposed
To swords and lances,
And daggers of tongues,
where my brother shed tears,
On your corpse,
‘De quel Age es-tu, Lord.’
You know it is your time
The leaves are wilting, and
They won’t match your Cambium
You know it is your time, and-
the worst of times are coming-for us,
For all of us.
And I see Thy pain so great,
I feel ashamed to display my wounds.
Dear father. Dear Lord:
‘De quel Age es-tu, Lord.’
“Though we were not good species in the ecosystem,
Dear Lord of the house
We had loved thou as much as Man can love God.”
-----------------
"De quel Age es-tu," From Arthur Rimbaud.
You endured our unkindness
Our piercing squeaks-when
Plucked your unripe fruits
And did many bad things with you ;
Un-rhymed, and dis-harmonized
the sparrows’ chirps.
Then we hung saw like ropes of swing.
Around your neck.
And for so many years
Wound around your wrist
Rough halters for
Calves’ tanned skins
. (our butter maker.)
And slaughtered under your shade
For Abraham’s son
A thousand heads of life-stock
And ripped their fleshes
With the heaviest choppers,
And most often barbecued
Their kidneys and testicles,
With ceremonial moods,
Screaming.
‘De quel Age es-tu, lord’
But,
Despite all our crimes
You said. ‘Whatsoever, dears.’
Again and again,
Until The thunder
Hit thy trunk
And split it
Into equal halves,
Sprawled on the ground
Like an integrated Adam,
Thighs open to the sky,
Having the Ditch of Earth
Between thy mountainous loins,
Henceforth;we understood,
How the motherland’s vagina exposed
To swords and lances,
And daggers of tongues,
where my brother shed tears,
On your corpse,
‘De quel Age es-tu, Lord.’
You know it is your time
The leaves are wilting, and
They won’t match your Cambium
You know it is your time, and-
the worst of times are coming-for us,
For all of us.
And I see Thy pain so great,
I feel ashamed to display my wounds.
Dear father. Dear Lord:
‘De quel Age es-tu, Lord.’
“Though we were not good species in the ecosystem,
Dear Lord of the house
We had loved thou as much as Man can love God.”
-----------------
"De quel Age es-tu," From Arthur Rimbaud.