Miguel de Ghelderode

ONE

I grew like a gnat in the dust, That accumulated on my father's body.

He was a bureaucrat of the most anonymous rank. His work consisted of transcribing old court Records; in his room the parchment and thick Manuscripts had been sorted into massive heaps Like pieces of loose rotting lumber. I would Worm my way through the sagging paper mounds, Examining elaborate seals, their crumbling wax.

I thought: I am surrounded by history. Anxious, I settled my skinny ass On the documented sentences delivered By the Duke of Alba's famous Blood Tribunal.

My father worked on. The thought that he Preserved history In some small way Never occurred to him.

— What is the smell in these books, Papa?

— Rats' piss.

TWO

From those facts I cultivated A new history, A new mythology,

In which Faust Returns as a comet, Leaving a scar Indelible as blood Upon our brain tissue,

In which Christ, That true shaman (I do, I do believe), Adjusted the earth To accommodate all Our useless extremities.

I put faces on Brueghel's vacant hordes!

And from those Miraculous voices I culled music for The fragile realm of kings.