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RIDER, Leila Samarrai

(I) Not a man, merely a warning to others.

Rider in eternity
In holy day of the paunch
The trample of the horse on trail leads the reprobate to the gates of the black Castle
In the entourage of the greedy, debauchee, gamblers
(steeped are all of his pockets)
the lock clicks and closes like a roomette of the sarcophagus

I am not a man, merely a warning to others.
Blood of the rider on the sorrel horse decants down the eyes of the sword.
Draw your courage.
Skeleton leaks from the paunch
Down valves of thirsty purple, cold sun

For madman who surfeit gnawed naked trees.
„Provision of wheat for a groat, three provisions of barley for a groat, and oil and wine there won’t be.”

I am not a man, merely a warning to others,
Swollen from anger and cry,
With eyes the color of swamp
Wizened body…

Inflamed are the furies
(Heracles , here is fire!)
minds are fed with hunger
(death with no hurry)

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Because of YOU, “The Second Birth Of Tragedy”, Leila Samarrai

Because of you the Gorgon cried

The lighthouses do not speak
And there was no miracle
A million scorpion miles away from here
The awake have porcelain in their eyes
The blind man buys his second cane
He lost his sight listening to the distances
Memories sway in the dark mirror

Because of you the lakes strangle with their hands…
Because of YOU death was the reconnaissance of Valkyr games
Chasms lick their lips and slyly smile

I watched you through eye-lashes of fur
My sclera murky in the reflection of the abyss
For I found within you a nest for the sight.

But, to hell. What am I talking about?
Have the Living ever kissed the Dead?

Because of YOU the breasts of the first pharaoh woman went blind
And at least one venomous civilization vanished when …
The Scorpion king from his throne bit the claw
Of the First god of Earth

Because of you the saints would strangle with silk white ribbons
And many throats were slit
There was Borodin, Hiroshima and the Austrian
Because of YOU the flood…

Because of YOU – why burial?
The neigh does not become a human scream
Throaty
Alike a striking prayer
Or the death bed cough

But how would I with no Trickster
The fearful meat on the fire
Tastes its loath.

For each hell sent – artist
always a Madman on the shoulder.

(oh, fragile gods…)

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