The lamb turns on the spit, feet
bound, head still bewildered. Think
away centuries of time and suddenly you stand beside
an old sacrifice: a lamb for a thought
a child for a favorable wind, the heart
of a cradled baby to safeguard
your own body. Think
away the disco music on the mountainside,
the familiar buzz of bees remains, sparrow
and swallow their nest and the fear of losing
the wind in your sail, seeing
your own soul flying. Dearest
with heads to the east let us
make a son.
And he existed. We lifted him
up, whirled him around and
once more and he crowed since he was
in loving hands and then it was
move on into the world with a heart
that can be snatched away, can be broken
flung into corners: of no value
that heart, neither porcelain nor gold, more a rusty
type of clay and there are so many like it, yours too
will soon go on the scrapheap. But he
didn’t want to go, he wanted
to grow and stay where it was good and good
he wanted to be, with villainous tricks. Shell
is a word like shame, the bowl in which
each one creeps around, repeatedly
re-exploring the body: is that me, a kind of grand
gesture with which I sometimes
slap someone in the face?
Where is the old city?
The old city lies a bit further on.
Where is a bit further on?
Beyond the crossroads, you have to pass it.
Where is the crossroads I have to pass?
Just before the place you seek.
Where is the place I seek?
Inside the gates of the old city.
Where are the gates of the old city?
The gates have been torn down.