Not All Who Cry "Lord, Lord!" (II)
I sing
of what refuses meaning;
of coins whose faces have faded,
of ballots cast into silence,
of the nameless dead,
of the sleeper on the bench beneath the dim supermarket light,
of the hollow-eyed, of the teeming multitude
Search the words.
Beneath them lie hoards –
silver veins, hammered gold,
filigree breathing in the dark,
and the white stones
the lost children scattered through the forest of forgetting
The witch is flame and shriek.
The evil stepmother beats the air with ruined wings.
Three frigid funeral home bitches in Nyköping
rise black-clad like carrion birds
into the swollen clouds,
drunk on bitter spirits
And the champion stands before the gaze of the world,
clear-eyed,
the banner about her shoulders –
a saint of will in the stillness after triumph
She kindles vengeance in the Kingdom.
She turns vaults into shelters.
She marks the masters of money for endless service.
She humbles the keepers of thresholds.
She darkens the towers of power
and scatters their hoarded silver among the hungry.
She casts the gatekeepers into exile beyond the horizon
Then those who never trembled
are summoned,
stripped bare,
and judged
under thunderous acclamation
And in the bargaining of empires
we gladly trade Slovakia & Hungary
for Ukraine
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2026-02-24 at 10:57
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