THE GREAT LAMENT OF MY OBSCURITY THREE

where we are the flowers in our clocks flare up their feathers ring the light
on a distant sulphur morning cows are licking the salt lilies
o my son
my son
we are always brought down by the colour of the world
it's blue more blue than subways than astronomy
we are too thin
we have no mouths
our legs are stiff & knock together
faces shapeless like the stars
dull crystal points a fire charred basilica
insane: the zigzags crackle
telephone
to gnaw the wires liquefy
the arc
to clamber
astral
memory
northward by its double fruit
like raw flesh
hunger fire blood





TRISTAN TZARA


(Translated by Jerome Rothenberg)

                                                         (1896-1963)