I. The Private Burial of the Dead
April was the cruellest month, breeding
lies out of the death counts, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull minds with spring sun bathing.
Isolation kept us safe, covering
England from forgetful infection, feeding
A little life despite underfunding.
Boris surprised us, coming over the radio
With a shower of spin; we stopped in the Morrison’s,
And went on in sunlight, into the unknown,
And drank coffee, and exercised, unrestricted.
Bleibe wachsam. Kontrollieren Sie den Virus. Leben retten
And when we were tired of children, schooling at home,
Our leaders, forced us out on a whim,
And I was frightened. They said, Stay alert,
Control the virus. Save lives. And down we went.
Onto over-crowded buses; at least they are free.
I read, little of their lies, and will stay home until winter.
Who are the fools that rush, so economies grow?
Out of this Tory rubbish? Sons of bankers,
You cannot say, or guess, for bankers know only
A heap of broken statistics, where the profits heap,
And the dead friends get no funeral, the bereaved no relief,
And the poor no security. Only
If only there was shelter under this red, white and blue rock,
(stay out of the shadow of this red, white and blue rock),
And I wish for something different from either
The virus at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of iMessages.
Tränen wehen im Wind
von zu Hause zu
meinem entfremdeten Kind,
wo bist du?
“I gave you labour first 30 years ago;
“They called me working class.”
—Yet when we came back, late, from the supermarket,
Our bones aching, and our throats sore, we could not
quarantine, and our lungs failed, we were neither
Living nor dead, but we knew too well,
Looking into the TV, in silence.
Langweilig und leer ihre Reden.
Read the original poem by T. S. Elliot here
©Poetcurious.2020