Hail! That cry that’s twenty centuries old:
– Not Him! – Barabbas!
– Not Him! – Barabbas!
echoes yet again in Jerusalem’s ancient town.
At dawn, when shutters unfold, that choir sings out
as heard twenty centuries ago, a sound
that echoes through every street and court.
Tbilisi… Paris…
in times of unrest,
in times of strife,
Truth is pinned in agony to the cross.
I search for the hidden prompter’s whereabouts in vain,
– Not Him! – Barabbas!
– Not Him! – Barabbas!
and, as beads slip through the praying Arab’s hand,
the sudden cry rings through each alley and lane.
Uriah’s banner flutters at the rally:
– Not Him! – Barabbas!
– Not Him! – Barabbas!
The ancient motif of old Jerusalem
rises as shutters open and echoes loudly.
A tourist stumbles, seeking daily bread,
dragging his sins to where Golgotha led…
while in Tbilisi’s heart, an adventurer’s heard
as he dissents, raising his voice aloud:
– Not Him! – Patria!
The lexicon shifts, yet the target remains the same,
and you can’t tell from where the wind will blow…
when the Word can’t swell the sails, the Bible says
let the sun set and the night moon glow.
A street voice shouts, perhaps in vain:
– Not Him! – but Liberty!
The scale of artifice grows greater day by day,
and leaves me face to face again with Pilate,
while media’s lens cloud over, dimming light,
if judged by one who leans to the modern style.
A new Golgotha tactic has been devised:
first, minimal training — then the strike.
The goal stays the same, the wording’s been refined
to fit the age and context to which it is aligned.
This age mocks icons with cynical artifacts,
but can’t match former beauty with its horrid crafts.
For, on the page, when the poet gives the cue,
the poetic line performs a pas de deux.
– How long? – This question aggravates, bites,
torments the ambitious, the army with no power
held in thrall by the shadow of another’s towering height,
yet none dare ask the cause, or question if it’s right.
The evening screen flickers, and we ask again,
– How long must we watch the master’s parade march on?
I answer —trust me: until the end of time…
– forever and ever……like Paris, and Céline Dion’s song,
We have lost now every tenuous link to Paradise…
you waited for the horsemen of the apocalypse —
but what rode up was the aestheticization of decline.
A message reminds me — this, our email age
has turned the world into ‘post received’ and ‘spam’.
A new dialect of ancient Aramaic translates as
Ha-ha! to Christ.
Hee-hee! to the Evangelist.
Spengler once mourned Europe’s fading light,
while the pro-Bubble grasps a bible of blah-blah.
Who parodies humanism? – the answer rings, precise,
The Devil, very likely! It is Bresson who replies.
And if urination-as-performance, or surrealist wanderings
bring to the so-called artist neither name nor fame —
then his Praying Hands shall redeem Dürer,
and perhaps, the viewer, too, will be saved.
If the art world’s manner is but an echo,
let the spoken word outshine the final dot.
Manet offers us Luncheon on the Grass,
preceded by Giorgione’s Pastoral Concert.
I’m not disturbed if judgment is passed,
I’ll strip the trendies of their shallow masks,
And, if Velázquez can’t find the time to do it,
I’ll ask Maestro Goya to paint your portrait.
And only those who’re true –
yes, only those who’re true –
I’ll praise with clinking glass and loud acclaim.
Sheltered by you, let quiet be our intent,
and if I can see clearly, then I’ll summon rain.
.
If dawn is breaking through your window’s glass,
if dawn is truly glowing on your windowpane,
this saltless existence will vanish in a trice
and Black Sea salt will seep into the Word.
I’ll walk the path you offered, holding to your hand,
though two gun barrels glare where we both stand…
The poet’s formula obeys neither science nor sacred law,
– I advance, led on by hope — the icon’s flame,
to compose the Blue Cathedral once more.
The planet spins around the poet’s word
and verse itself becomes the axis of the world.
