Against Translation

Lyrics
The songs swept down from the northern steppes with cinerary horse and sword and vestment in the wake of battle suicidal for a bronze translation of flesh burnt to a vertical vapor trail of fame which, so they claimed, would be undying by which they meant the dying would be just prolonged a little longer as on a ladder made of air each legendary smoke of name could only climb by thinning till it wasn't there. And now as the steel tips of our devices dig, sort through and analyze what's left behind: scant traces of berserk debris, dumb soot of ritual effaced by dumber ash, beneath ghost towns the ghosts have all abandoned, all we unearth intact now are the untranslated bones of babies, inhumed at home in older dwellings on deeper strata under mud floors in pits — placed carefully on sides, knees drawn to chests, skulls cupped in pebble bones of hand, the dead nursling, the stillborn, the miscarried — unnamed, unadorned, as if the only grave goods buried with them were their perishing — as if that were what the mothers wanted to keep close, keep hidden, safe from the heroic stench of burning upward while their breasts still swelling dripping freshened the black dirt sucking at their feet.
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