An Old Jew Hearing Der Ring After Many Years of Silence 

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.