Wednesday, 26 February 2020

The Masters


In the Governorate of Estonia, serfdom was abolished in 1816 (in comparison, in the whole Russian Empire it was abolished in 1861), however the land was not redistributed among the peasants and the corvée labor was preserved (until 1876). The American Civil was fought from 1861 to 1865, with slavery abolished by the Thirteenth Amendment in 1865. The poems if about the changing face of the colonialism.

We were the good masters,
taking Christ and glass beads
to uneducated savages.
Their lords became our henchmen.

The hostile tribes
felt the impotence
or hatchets and clubs.
Back crooked, they waiting for us
as if for hail, a thunder
they have never experienced.

We gave them cold,
as cold is good.
We taught them to read
Bible and count money,
because these are good as well.
We forced them to build houses,
until cities sprouted.
Plaza de Armas, Central Square –
the castles and fortresses
showed our power
and the savages understood
that these are good.

Their little castles
of palm leaves, earth and dung,
thick logs, rocks and corrogated iron,
modern blocks, aluminum, glass,
roof tiles and drywall
absorbed our power.

The savages learned to write poetry.
They used our alphabet to compose their epics.
They too religion from us, and it was good.
They took our habits and way of life,
made wigs of Samson’s hair
and held country fairs.

We, the masters, retreated.
Our parachute men
rose to Algerians sky and flew away.
Dandellions had flowered
and a rotting couch stood on the porch.

The the cicada could fiddle
on their miserable folk instruments.
A festival tramped on the memory
of our power.
“Come back!” a Little Master called,
and we went,
leaving the chapels for bush and grass.

We ceased to live
but didn’t die.
As an ivy we sucked the last strenght
from the old walls.
In our stables they built restaurants
and the tribes fought as in the olden days.

We were the good masters,
but the goodness did not maintain our power.
We are tired,
but we cannot leave.

We cannot call us the good ones,
because savages are not bad any more.
The peculiar pagan faiths
are honored again.

So we hide the stuffed pygmys
to the restricted collections
of ethnographical museums.
We send apologies to Central Africa.
We bow our head in mourings
for the Iranian nuclear scientists.
We celebrate holocaust day
and demand Israel to recognise Palestine.
We talk of xenophobia and privay policy.

Great American companies
honestly hint
the they are guilty of eating the bees.
The tongue of Rolling Stones
is still swollen
after licking the honey
of the developing countries.

We call ourselver West
and West, it’s the light coloured people.
Never trust a blonde.
The blaze of evil blue eyes
rises over Davos.

Our skiis have the power
when we slide down the hills.
White hell, white kingdom.
If we cannot be the masters of good,
we are the masters of evil.

We tramp to the mud
everybody who tells
that our Hitler was less or a bastard
than Stalin or Mao.
We’re antifa just to maintain
the power of fascism.
We buy canned food
from biomarkets
and take an airplane to converence
to discuss climate change,
caused by technology –
technology, it’s us.

We are the bad masters,
but we rule the world.
We are tired,
but not ready to leave.

The bigger our guilt,
the more powerful we are.

No need for dumbbells
and education
to be a sexist pig.
Your ancestry is enough
to be evil and strong.

The white master, walking on tiptoes –
your flat muscles
conceal an amazing power.
Oh, white lady, prophessing trouble,
a girl with history,
you have seven billion children,
who must obey to your wisdom.

It’s you who knows how to live.
You’re old.
Your the lady of the house.
Your man is the master.
Lips sticky with apple juice
you talk of your guilt,
bigger that the others have.

Plaza de Armas, Central Square –
with alphabets learned from the masters
the savages paint slogans there.

Plaza de Armas, Central Square –
you, the savages, gulp the guilt of your masters
like stolen honey.
Your tongues get swollen,
but your chest if puffy of bride.
You’re young,
and you are not leaving.

You have seven billion children.

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