cursed be the victory!

Gustaf Munch-Petersen: Towards Jerusalem

my Beloved

comes

sailing

with all,

that has not yet

been seen,

never yet sensed –

the sight

of my Beloved’s foot

makes me

superfluous with agitation –

now the landing

is made, the gangway tightened

to flourish under my

Beloved’s foot, all

the dreadful, that

which every

soul would recognize

as itself in

the grandeur of gods – |

a red dust

I flap faster

than all

the new’s triumph-express,

I am easily carried

less noticeable than my

Beloved’s

all-relieving landing-foot –

The Banner of the

Last Realm is planted

trembling through the heart

of the world –

NOW

my Beloved would

see me –

to dust become,

to see This,

I aim faster

than all

colourless

without eyes

without fire,

to light my

Beloved’s commands

on another moon,

whose heart still

gasps,

yet, YET! |

 

find me

seek me

Beloved –!

or I hate,

hate you like the superfluous

paradise of

victory –

find me

seek me

me the dust,

made of nothing

into everything –

Beloved, shall

I hate you to

less than

dust –?

listen:

there is no

victory!!