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Decline of the West

The poet told me that April is the cruel month
Between two solstices, the tension became unbearable
I do not reflect anymore, I do not see, only remember
Old glory
Illustrious men faded, chewed-on laurel leaves, Ozymandyas
on sand, begging passers by to call him 'King of Kings'
But his kingdom is just a fistful of sand and in this fistful
I see terror. But I still greet him each morning as the sun slowly eats at him in the desert next to the El-Fayum oasis
 
Every night I dream of Sibyll
Every night I ask her 'Sibyll, what do you want?'
'I wish to die'.
'I wish to die'.
'I wish to die'.
'Sibyll, how do people die?'
And she answered:
 
I saw the Pieta and the Virgin looked at me with the eyes of a dead person.
She is caressing Jesus (she is not a mother
She is not a mother
She is a snake)
Quietly
 
Enormous eyes, black lips. red nails and deep inside
Cruelty beyond understanding
The New Tyrrant on the virginal sheet
(she is not a mother
She is not a mother
She is a snake)
This Place is Terrible
 
This is how our world dies
This is how our world dies
This is how our world dies
Not with a Scream, but with a Sigh.