Woden, mad berserk and hopeless drunk,
Whose revenging dreams stalked that soma—
That mead of poetry, that dark and esoteric truth—
Gave a superstitious eye to prefigure even the ravens.
There’s blood in mead. Only sight can trade for sight.
Like the wax which screams at the weight of a needle,
Transcribing truth upon the air only
At a small cost.
A truth so painful it pilots my brain back
To the red roofs and the blue ink
Transcribed on bodies
Screaming at the weight of a needle
Like a great human record.
So when, with my one good eye,
I see the young blackshirts parading through the night,
Black on black, the ravens and I
See too the ghost of Wagner.