Excerpts from
The War
By Klaus Rifbjerg
then the war is over
everyone heaves a sigh of relief
letīs get on with our lives
but the war isnīt over
or rather
the real war is over
but not war
I reach over and carefully place
my hand on your hair
as you sleep
and our shared warmth
mingles
afloat in earthbound circling
and I remember my dead
and their absolute remoteness
and the cold
that no demon can thaw
war keeps going on its own terms
which are not amusing
dreamily the plants nod to each other
in the night breeze
mutely they transpose
messages about inner secretions
aggressive ants and dewdrops
that slowly free themselves
mirror the moon and trickle down
encapsulating
their pearl
until they burst
expansively the earth and the low scrub
accept the moisture
the great lungs of the globe inhale
the enemy that they have supplied with weapons
and fought with all their forces
continues the war
against an enemy within the enemy
only war is the same
tilting my ear toward the radio waves
I hear the sliding
clattering chorus of
beseeching messages
postulates
assertions
prayers appeals
outlandish music
distorted commentaries
pounding rhythms
words words words
in every shade and nuance
I tilt my head
toward the tower of Babel
and fell a dizzy fraternity
and a deep dejection
that momentarily lifts
because a tone from infinity
suddenly comes through at
one hundred twenty-four megahertz
until a Moroccan pop singer
replaces God
and takes the stage and continues
an interrupted duet with a Russian
sportscaster
who only by the skin of his teeth
avoids being drowned out by the news of
another flood in Bangladesh
from the BBC world service
to be quite honest
itīs enough to wear you out
From: Klaus Rifbjerg: War
Fjord Press, 1995
Translated by Steve T. Murray and Tiina Nunnally
|
|
