sabato 7 marzo 2020

The Bat

by Sandro D. Fossemò

 (Translated from Italian to English) 

A demon circles above
in the howling wind.
In the blackness of the night its presence 
is menacing over the rooftops,
like the spectre of a sombre midnight.
That large bat no longer inhabits its castle.

Astride my horse I observe its fatal flight,
gladdened by the sight near a medieval town.
Atop the rocky summit I feel a hidden yearning,
that separates me from the synthetic hologram.

To that bat...
I wish to say: “Nevermore sombre swamps,
without the presence of fungi from Yuggoth!”

The broken bell of the black tower was once loved
in a past long ago echoing with abandoned magic.
Pure beauty are the mouldering walls and the gargoyle,
beauty in a chasm of illusions and sadness.

To that bat...
I wish to say: “Nevermore may civilisation be superior, 
without the riches of ancient times!”

The white bones of skeletons wander the theatres,
imprisoned within dark forbidding shows.
Grey tombs await the newly-risen and the ghouls
against a backdrop of deserted mountains.

To that bat...
I wish to say: “Nevermore the sadly rustling leaves,
so quickly attached to oblivion!”

You live in the nocturnal vault,
rather than die in the daytime madness.
You enter a wine cellar,
to savour the body of a red wine.
Be bats, 
dream Arkham wrapped in your cloak.
Perform a Necronomicon ritual in secret,
call Yog-Sothoth with an amulet.
Wander the solitary lonely avenues 
to hide yourselves in the mouldering ruins. 

To that bat...
I wish to say: “Nevermore near the lamp posts,
burnt by its artificial light!”

I can no longer find shadows for my hiding places,
nowhere for me to unfurl my claws.
The sinister orchestra of nature plays no more,
no more symphony of fear to enjoy.

To that bat...
I wish to say: “Nevermore isolated in the desolate night,
without the splendour of the enchanted stars!”

We no longer feel a shiver,
watching the leaden sky cracked by lightening.
We no longer feel such vital emotion,
seeing the Northern Lights shine on the ice.

To that bat...
I wish to say: “Fly towards Polaris,
so we are no longer simulated 
in the alien emptiness of planned worlds.”

Magical obscurity dissolves a paralysing universe.
Unknown constellations appear in a fascinating sky.
The song of the sidereal wind seals an ancestral dream.

I will watch as meteorites fall and the decay is buried. 
The Great Old Ones will teach freedom to the new human race.
With my tentacles I will pass from the folds 
of time to the columns of a temple, 
while slaughtering the masses with my jaws.

To that bat...
I wish to say: “Nevermore a cosmic bloodless night,
where my existence merely languishes!”


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