All
that is left of Wotan
is
a sword in an empty room,
an
empty hall, perhaps
the
hall of the mountain
king.
Wotan himself has fled
to
Brazil or Uruguay or
Argentina,
leaving his spoils
of
the dead for others.
For
those who would enter
this
room, dressed in black,
waving
swords in the desert
of
hate, there is always
the
trap door, which is both
a
door
and
a trap.
Painting: Nothung (Notung), oil and
charcoal on burlap by Anselm Kiefer (1973); Museum Boijmans Van Beuningen,
Rotterdam.
2 comments:
The desert of hate.
Both a door and a trap.
Wonderful stuff here, Glynn. I needed this today.
This poem so appealed to me in all its vibrant imagery which pulls past into present - those wearing black in the desert of hate and, sadly, in our own backyards.
Blessings, Glynn!
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