Self-Search

The color of the heart is red—
the crimson, blood-soaked cells of the head,
from where do they come,
and what work do they perform with the poet?
In the books of pundits,
in the reigns of kings,
in Plato’s Republic—is there room for poets at all?
 
Man arrives first—
and the more mad he is,
the further he advances in platonic love.
I, too, may hasten my recovery,
painting the hue of yellow bones
while rehearsing storms inside the brain.
The thoughts of mindless creatures
are founded only upon sex.
Yet if the abyss of the mind could be searched,
then Marx, sir, I too would come,
to set up a household inside a museum.
 
If at mealtime none were left starving,
then man’s task might have been simple,
and states could be built like hives of bees—
life would pass in monotonous labor,
without regret of waste.
 
Across the road of humanity
comes the solitary heart, a wild beast,
its rhythm like poetry
slipping loose from the brain,
laden with dialectical hedonism.
Where does rain fall,
and readers’ veins swell with fury?
Our last red days approach—
let the new come,
cling not to the old at all.
A rose-tinted project of self-searching begins.
 
The blue-blooded creatures,
they too are my neighbors.
I never wished to seize anyone by force—
not attack, but only with love,
and with a few small feelings besides.
 
One day I thought I might comprehend the state,
so I drowned my judgment,
and went to the great Plato,
to enrich myself.
I lifted my eyes, and lo! I saw:
Voltaire lay buried,
holding Thus Spake Zarathustra against his chest,
while Spinoza and Hegel sat rigid,
by his head like statues of doubt.
And in Marx’s hand, the knife was red,
as Nietzsche’s very heart.
 
Solemn Plato, with hand upon his cheek,
thought deeply, and at last spoke, gazing upon them:
“I asked you to build the State—
not to weave poetry.”