Is this the morning? Which sun is rising?
Casimir von Pászthory
Is this the morning? Which sun is rising?
How large the sun is.
Are those birds? Their voices are everywhere.
Everything is bright, but it is not a day.
Everything is loud, but they are not the calls of birds.
It is the beams that are bright.
It is the windows that are screaming.
And they scream, red, to the enemy
who are standing outside in the flickering country, screaming fire.
And with torn up sleep in their faces all are crowding,
half iron, half naked, from room to room,
from sections and wings and search for the staircase.
And the horns in the courtyard stammer with uncertain breath:
Assemble, Assemble!
And quaking drums.