Giordano Bruno
That madman who discovered the center of water did not have a splendid fate
but rather a ridiculous reward, he was stoned and
directed to an out-of-the-way place for his tomb: “Here’s where the likes of you shall be enthroned.”
His eyes beamed with pride, they addressed the genius of suffering
in a language nobody knew: “Is this all?
I can take more punishment.” With his four hands
(he’d acquired four), he molded dwarfs’ faces out of the stones
that struck his body. Kneaded by his fingers, the stone became wax
willing itself to be an egg.
The hands of the clock, lurching backwards, unscrolled time ironically;
at signs like these, the bearer of the poison cup falls timidly down the staircase,
his bones grow, his flesh prickling and stinging. The stench
of the betrayal of one being by another being,
the sulfur tongs clawing at the counterfeiter’s nostrils,
the operating table shown to the accursed, the stake, instead a celebratory banquet
with the rarest wines, acids can be heard tinkling all across the hills, like a flock:
fire devouring fire.
And in addition: the shame of being undressed by force under the gaze of delicate
young women. And in addition: the giggling of girls in strict schools.
And in addition: the cold of winter fluttering the folds of his blood. Fire
flung upon their frozen faces the heat of the stake, which nevertheless made as if to
to wash away their guilt.
And in addition: the madmen of the country, splattering his body with paint,
hurling defilement upon him. Like a dolphin, the accursed man’s mouth whispered to those cursing him:
“You, knights who strike me, I burn with longing
to caress your paleness. What gift can I grant you, that your powerlessness
might change to power? Like a dead man, I feel no blows,
the tree smarts not from the iron teeth. What can you steal
from so poor a man, what can you sell to someone who lacks
nothing? Were you to offer me wolf meat, do you
suppose I should turn wolf? No instrument
can hurt the core of my being. It’s as if
you were torturing a man yet unborn.
You inhabit a time I inhabited centuries ago.
But I shall inhabit a time you are denied. You are striking a being
whose mother is as yet unborn.
As humiliating as for men who are pining away for a woman
who will be born long after their death.”
That madman who discovered the center of water did not have a splendid fate
but rather a ridiculous reward, he was stoned and
directed to an out-of-the-way place for his tomb: “Here’s where the likes of you shall be enthroned.”
His eyes beamed with pride, they addressed the genius of suffering
in a language nobody knew: “Is this all?
I can take more punishment.” With his four hands
(he’d acquired four), he molded dwarfs’ faces out of the stones
that struck his body. Kneaded by his fingers, the stone became wax
willing itself to be an egg.
The hands of the clock, lurching backwards, unscrolled time ironically;
at signs like these, the bearer of the poison cup falls timidly down the staircase,
his bones grow, his flesh prickling and stinging. The stench
of the betrayal of one being by another being,
the sulfur tongs clawing at the counterfeiter’s nostrils,
the operating table shown to the accursed, the stake, instead a celebratory banquet
with the rarest wines, acids can be heard tinkling all across the hills, like a flock:
fire devouring fire.
And in addition: the shame of being undressed by force under the gaze of delicate
young women. And in addition: the giggling of girls in strict schools.
And in addition: the cold of winter fluttering the folds of his blood. Fire
flung upon their frozen faces the heat of the stake, which nevertheless made as if to
to wash away their guilt.
And in addition: the madmen of the country, splattering his body with paint,
hurling defilement upon him. Like a dolphin, the accursed man’s mouth whispered to those cursing him:
“You, knights who strike me, I burn with longing
to caress your paleness. What gift can I grant you, that your powerlessness
might change to power? Like a dead man, I feel no blows,
the tree smarts not from the iron teeth. What can you steal
from so poor a man, what can you sell to someone who lacks
nothing? Were you to offer me wolf meat, do you
suppose I should turn wolf? No instrument
can hurt the core of my being. It’s as if
you were torturing a man yet unborn.
You inhabit a time I inhabited centuries ago.
But I shall inhabit a time you are denied. You are striking a being
whose mother is as yet unborn.
As humiliating as for men who are pining away for a woman
who will be born long after their death.”
