Your art can parade words

of great minds Kierkegaard, Hegel, and Heidegger,

and force it down throats.

Words not originated and cemented within you;

not first born from your tongue is senseless.

Wooden boxes on hills.

Inside the wooden boxes live wooden people.

Wooden boxes in fields.

Wooden cuckoo clocks without pendulums and birds.

Wooden phone booths without phone or dial.

So clear our fatal future

yet our art has glitter on it,

a mirror of society’s denial,

future generations will look back at art

in disgust, for it showed no vision.

Ek loop deur hierdie woud,

wonder oor voorvaders se bloed en bene

gesirkel binne bome se blare

hulle siele ry in takke sonder vlerke

hulle kennis gesyfer diep in die grond.

Oh Suomi of black mood,

your woods are black, your bread black

Oh Suomi, with blackest nights

When the white snow sprinkle your soul

do you salt your heart ahead of time?