The Muddy Horse

[rmorgan]

I’m thinking of that phrase, the image Brel abandoned
In last sung words, the image of the muddy horse
Cheval boueux. I asked you for translation
No part of this is mine and I never understood the song, only
Its beauty and its place. The music speaks of war and darkness
Weeping women and profanities of life. But now who knows?
I never will. Nor is that glorious f+++ who killed himself
With French tobacco here now to explain. But he would be right
No doubt, keeping all explanations to himself.

I knew it in the Kalahari and among the ruins of New York
And it was clear back when the desert was my innocence.
The town is sleeping. It fell asleep. One by one they fall.
They fall and all the nameless people sleeping there
Forget the names of cities and the reason for the burning skies.
Now we are all asleep, our horses tired and we no longer ride
We have forgotten everything, our lives are soiled, our servants are too tired
The skies are burning all the while, up to a high degree, and Brel was right
Not to explain a truth beyond reality.

I hear his voice, from many years ago. For I am still asleep
In poetry demanding to awake. Where is your song, what hides your poem
You Russians, Yankees and Chinese
Conquistadores
Lost in the blue night under waves of birds
Lost in your sleeping cities, soiled slums?
The more you are, the less world becomes.