The New World, Requesting Nothing but Peace by Steven Orlen

The sky extracts color like blood into needles.
Our pristine organists have landed again
in movable towers, set on the backs of donkeys
in the grand, ascetic tradition:

if only to break the silence
or create new ones burned with our names,
only to say we have lived here,
to be counted among the missing.

This is the long-awaited continent,
maps without faces, cities without saints,
no encores, no deaths
to plant, no momentos
hung on the walls like crosses.

You cannot imagine the emptiness,
the sabbath of fantasy.

Antarctica, lunar love, future
whatever is offered
we will gladly fall over your edge,
bathe our bodies in salt.

No, we will lie here until we can safely dream,
discover what
kind of life you really lead.


Date: 1969

By: Steven Orlen (1942-2010)

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