Deaf souls

Two are the ferocious souls
bubbling in the damned
swarming of the unconscious,
torrid and infamous of the people
and which serve cunning politicians.
The first is that which feeds
of the diaphanous image,
as in a painting with a frame
made of coloured pebbles,
of the garden or the happy island.
If you speak to me of garden or island
the dark faces that ask for asylum
and revenge for wrongs suffered
can only appear thorny brambles
with black sap burning the lawn
like a festering disease or a swarming of worms.
The happy island then is that stretch of soul,
of sweet caresses, of sunshine
that brings promises of immortality
and of your woman's blue reflections,
that is yours alone and no one else's.
You understand that appealing to goodness is no use
There is so much of the gloomy dust of the Übermensch in all this
and of a misunderstood reflex of defence.
The second soul, perennial discord
is similar to the first, but lives in the jungle
and demands security from the satraps
who live in comfortable villas beyond the savannah.
Here the happy gypsies are enemies,
the fake social workers who trick the elderly into robbing them,
the thieves of memories
in the poor houses,
they call for revenge.
Here we measure a weary ego, plagued by neuroses
stupefied, which seeks redemption
for its own unmentionable impulses
with fantasies of pogroms against the ragamuffin.
This is the eternal lymph of the right outside
and of the inner one