alas our good
kaspar is
dead.
who will bury a
burning flag in the wings of the clouds who will pull
black
wool over our eyes day by day.
who will turn the
coffee mills in the primal barrel.
who will lure the
idyllic roe from his petrified paperbag.
who will sneeze oceanliners unbrellas
windudders
beekeepers
spindles
of
ozone who will pick clean
the pyramids' bones.
alas alas alas our good kaspar is dead. holy
saint bong kaspar is dead.
the
clappers raise heart-rending echoes of sorrow in the barns of the bells
when we murmur his name. therefore i will only sigh out his surname
kaspar kaspar kaspar.
why hast thou forsaken us. in what shape has thy lovely great soul taken
flight. hast thou changed to a star or
a chain made of water in a tropical
whirlwind or
a teat of black light or a transparent brick in a drum that
howls for its
craggy existence.
now the soles of our feet and the crowns of our heads have dried up and
the fairies are lying
half-charred on the funeral piles.
now the black
bowling alleys thunder in back of the sun and no one is
setting a compass or spinning the wheelbarrow's wheels.
who will eat with the phosphorized rat on the lonely barefooted table.
who will chase the
siroccoco devil that's trying to lead off our horses.
who will decipher the
monograms scratched on the stars.
his bust shall adorn the mantels of people ennobled by truth through it
leaves but small comfort or
snuff for his
death's head.
- Hans Arp, translation from the German by Jerome Rothenberg.