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Refractory your horse-skull,
Knowing the price for his head.

Like a plate for days empty
We stretch our hands out of the frame.
Through the albumen of the sky
Swims a bloody yolk.
We are still warming our blue
Clammy fingers underneath.

Your dogmatic mouth,
Which I hate, this stroke of a brush,
So similar to my lips,
Says: That’s what we look like.

We are still washing
Pope-like our unguilty hands
In the public toilets
Of our epoch.

Where the spout smacks blood.

Steely your horse skull
Destroys my begging gesture neighingly.

Our future, a sleeping film
In opaguely barred heads,

With some possible pictures on it.

Steffen Mensching, Siqueiros: Unser Antlitz
from: Ein Molotowcocktail auf fremder Bettkante, Reclam Verlag Leipzig, 1991; S. 273
translation from German by Michael Bruchner, Jan 94

Original in Deutsch

Rückübersetzung ins Deutsche mit Babelfish