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Kurt Seligmann. “The Tragedian”.

How beautiful you used to be, beloved girl,
when crystalline waters welled
from the spring of your laugh,
and the sun nested its glint
into your hair,
as light embers
that did not undertake flight yet.
You were such an aegis rising
above burning stubbles
of silent, devoted, fierce loves.
Do you remember, beloved boy,
how inside you was plunged the dark edge
of the night exposing the groaning flesh,
and was the pulp of your lips
glorious entrails for the beast
of this mouth?
How you drove yourself into the skin
of ripe delicacies,
with flower garlands tightened
to the sweat of your back,
upon a soft carpet of leaves.
What brings you here now,
beloved girl, beloved boy,
to this cage of jackals
hungry for quantums and pixels,
to be blamed for the pathetic,
flourished rhyme, mellow of honeys and bees,
grotesque fodder of memes?
The exultant spring, the unquiet fates
and gods,
all the effete lyricism of the muses,
they are the waste of an ecological-green
life flushing down a toilet.

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