Kay Hassan
"A thousand celestial tears shed for you"
Version I
-From the Old House.
(De quel Age es-tu, Lord.)*
Oh, Grandfather’s mulberry,
How old are you?
-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.
Version II
The Ancient Witness
Oh, Grandfather's mulberry, celestial specter of time,
How many eons have you stood sentinel?
Your colossal trunk, hollowed by millennia,
Yet defiant, sprouting life anew.
Sacred shade for medieval hand-mills,
Guardian of the hallowed stone,
Where our Lord's mortal shell was cleansed,
De quel âge es-tu, timeless one?
Countless seasons you've borne our burdens,
Echoes of anguish and maternal lullabies,
Cradling the sickly in your boughs.
You endured our thoughtless cruelty,
Our shrill cries piercing your unripe fruit,
Discordant with nature's symphony.
We hung death's implements from your limbs,
Bound rough halters to your ancient flesh.
Beneath your canopy, a thousand sacrifices,
Blood-soaked earth and seared flesh,
Kidneys and testicles offered to the flames,
While we howled, "De quel âge es-tu, lord?"
Yet you whispered, "Whatsoever, dears,"
Until Zeus' fury split your core,
Sprawled like primordial Adam,
Earth's womb exposed between your roots.
Thighs open to the sky,
Having the Ditch of Earth
Thus we understood the motherland's violation,
Ravaged by steel and venomous tongues.
My brother wept upon your fallen form,
"De quel âge es-tu, Lord?"
Now your leaves wither, time's decree,
No longer matched to your life-giving core.
The worst of times loom on the horizon,
Your agony dwarfs our petty wounds.
Dear father, dear Lord of the domicile,
"De quel âge es-tu?" we ask in vain.
Though unworthy stewards of your realm,
We loved you as mortals love the divine.
In your demise, we face our own mortality,
The ecosystem's judgment on our species.
Your silent wisdom echoes through ages,
A testament to nature's enduring grace
