Never, never,
I'm not a brother, friend, life partner.
Never, never . . .
You're not my brother, my friend, my life partner.
We're both "the other".
We're merely an "other" . . .

*

I have your eyes, your heart;
I have your mouth, your lungs, the pain of your regret . . .
Your shiver of fear
And your soul's sigh in the presence of beauty.
But, suddenly,
Under cover of creation's brotherhood,
From the offspring of roosters, crocodiles and rabbits,
The thirst for steel, the perversion of blood
And the greed of the children of God militias
To monopolise membership of the celestial "nudist club" is revealed.
An image of "the other" is revealed
Hidden in the secret clouds of the other.
(A knife is revealed . . . )
And it is revealed that
Both of us are the other's other
Both of us are types . . .
And both of us are sacrificial animals.
. . . . . . . . .

So
Don't blame frailty.
Don't blame fear.
Don't blame the outcast's helplessness.
Don't blame the jerk of the coward's hand
Don't blame the lust of a stalker
Of a trench
Or a den
Or a penthouse.
But . . .
Blame your weapon readied beneath the wedding's din.
Blame your brother's weapon (your brother "the other")
Lurking behind the "enemy" defences.
Blame the venomous conviction of the messengers of blindness . . .
Blame the power of "the other's" certainty,
Which does not see in "the other"
Anything but "the other's" errors.
Blame the trench we dug together
(You, the other, and I, the other's other.)
We dug it together . . .
And here we are now, on enemy sides,
Blindfolded with our creeds and rage,
Blindfolded with the lie of the brotherhood of creatures,
Each prostrate behind his heap of dirt . . . or heap of creed,
Eye on the target,
Finger on the trigger
And heart trembling . . .

We are both lambs of the wolf.
. . . . . . . .

I am "the other"
And you are "the other's other".
We both own reality
But neither owns right.

Evil will last forever . . .
. . . . . . . .

You are "the other"
And I am "the other's other".
We both own truth
But neither owns what's true.

Yes, evil will last forever . . .

*

Don't smile
I hope you don't smile
For behind this rose
I smell the scent of a death.

Translation: John Peate