War Song

War Song

Tristan Tzara

bird bogeymen have pushed through these fields
where bronze furrows

what do you have in the stables?
listen to the horn of the woodspeople

Mother,
grass has dried my soul
and I fear

--that you lie here and here you will burn

The wind of autumn
we make to the frontiers,

we no longer sign
the cross near a church

Our loves
if they were able to transform themselves
to fountain water, the shadow of walnut trees
we could stay

Mama,
my cries are like the octave

this road will last
so we hurry there

and if sore, if our knees are sore
I will be elsewhere

The wind sinks a nail into our eyes
our pupils are grenades
Here troupes halt at noon

and scatter like a stream into a marsh
the earth scorched like homelessness
she does not quench our thirst, yet, smells like warm bread

over our camp

she makes carcasses to worm water
and provides drink to increase a population

our grief our sadness windblown
she grounds it to cereal

old yellow poplar raised by a trench
open your stomach review the entrails

there is a blonde young
innkeeper from Hirsoveni
how many hours do we have before again?

I slept with the misery of drill bits
I revealed myself in a pool of hymns

I cry at the bottom
I am not death—