Not All Who Cry "Lord, Lord!"
I singof what wants to mean nothing;
of expired coins,
of empty ballots without a party,
of the dead without names,
of Matsa on the park bench outside Tempo,
of hollow-eyed ones, of the overcrowded
But search the texts! Here treasures are hidden;
caches of silver, gold, wrought metal,
delicate filigree,
and the white stones
Hans & Greta left behind:
The witch burns & screams,
the stepmother flaps with broken wings,
three frigid funeral hags in Nyköping
rise like jackdaws in the rain clouds,
drunk on rotgut,
and Ebba Andersson looks into the camera
with clear eyes
and the flag around her shoulders;
the saint of will in the calm intoxication of victory,
who ignites revenge in the Kingdom,
who turns the big banks into shelters
and sentences the bank directors to lifelong community service
and puts the welfare hags on subsistence level,
who cuts the power to the CEOs & boards of the power companies
and redistributes their usury money to the needy
and forever deports the migration officials to Iran,
when those who never had to worry are called to account
and stripped of everything,
under deafening cheers,
while we happily offer Putin Slovakia & Hungary,
in exchange for Ukraine
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
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Written on 2026-02-24 at 10:22
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