Anger

When I see, in our dark and decaying

house, the old weaponry hanging

angrily, twinkling in their rust

when day has dawned

and the last sound has faded

where, in the wild movement of the storm,

bowed over the crossed sword,

once lived the saviour of the land;

and when I see a new species of dwarves

scampering dizzily about the rocks,

bold when it is sunny on the mountains,

fearful and writhing when storms come,

hawking their Saviour's blood and tears

once again with ridicule,

drowning without lament, desire and yearning,

in the river of time;

if then I contemplate how you stood

faithfully, when no one else remained faithful:

then, thinking of our dishonor

and burning deeply with angry love,

I want to sink roots into the marrow of the rocks,

and up to heaven's clear expanse,

aiming mutely, like a strong

giant pine, raise myself.