I am cut from the cloth of Judas
And have seen his face in mine
The weathered hands that turn the pages
Are scattered in the sun
My ship has the blackest sails
Yet no wind to drive like slaves
You cannot see from shore
That it casts no shadow upon the wave
The sepulchral crawl with us
Over land and sea they hail
Deadened hands upon the rudder
Groaning on the gale
They will dash you against the cliffs
'Til every brittle bone is broken
Jutting rip and gristled knuckle
Is gnashing on the foam
I am cut from the cloth of Judas
From the hangman's hand itself
The long stare of the condemned
And the cursed song of slaves
"And you who follow me to make
Sure I do not exceed the span,
Given to me on earth I take
Care old Shadow of a man
Dead God of all my god's own snake"
(Guillam Appolinaire, from "Reply of the Zagur-Og Cossacks to the Sultan of Constantinople")
Free me from the hangman's hand
Free me from the hangman's noose
So bend your knee before the majesty of death
You struggle for breath and lay the dead head to head
So they stretch from the womb to the grave
Let us tell you the first journey of men
The first murder, the soil so red and barren
It burns so red and barren
