Portraits Of Stockhausen No.2 Poem by Daniel Brick

Now colors drain out of the world
and morning mist no longer gently
drips down the stems of flowers
to moisten the soil. The soil itself
has been crushed to powder, the winds
have scattered its traces and the hard
ground has become a vast field of dead
or dying warriors, desolate fields,
multiplying as battles rage without truces
or victory celebrations across the whole region.

I see you at the head if your cavalry, a man
only in name, a heavily armored ghost, whose very
arrival on a battlefield is death to lesser warriors
and a final test of the prowess of your greatest
enemies, who rejoice to match you sword to sword,
or lance to lance. For the bloody glory of death
in battle is the only glory left in this kingdom
of death and despair. Twenty-five thousand warriors
lie scattered on this battlefield. What does it matter
which side they fought on? They all lived for you,
they all died for you. There is nothing left of life
in this world but the time between preparing for battle
and dying in battle. All hail, the Conqueror, Our Ideal Man!

But on this afternoon of yet another victory,
there is the odor of defeat, not their defeat,
YOUR DEFEAT. You dismount and move clumsily in your heavy
armor. Your horse senses a betrayal, it rears up
and neighs fiercely, then flings itself over the abyss.
You know what this means: you begin to disarm. You toss
your helmet to the ground, your breast plates clank
as they hit the hard ground. All of it falls from
your person: Your chain mail, your leather apron,
your gold silk tunic, your coarse wool undergarments.
You stand before your army in nakedness,
no trace of glory as the wind swirls dust over your flesh.
Nothing protects you from your own disgust, nothing
is there at all, just a mere man, naked, naked.
Some of your most trusted followers are shocked into
paralysis, others are shamed into humiliation,
some are fierce with clenched anger. A few dismount,
they try to cover your nakedness, to no avail.
You raise your arms, no longer disguised in armor,
and shout in a hoarse, strangled voice:
Soldiers, drop your weapons. In my dread name,
I command you to surrender your arms to earth.
There was a long pause, silent, austere as the sun
dimmed to near darkness. Then the sound of
thirty-five thousand pointed weapons hitting
was shocking to both those who loved and those
who feared him. There was no middle ground.
His kingdom was broken. Then a miraculous moment!
Something stirred in his soul and awoke
to its full consciousness: Soldiers, from this day forth,
you are no longer soldiers, you are citizens. There will be
no more men killing men, no more widows grieving their loss,
no more sons without fathers, planing their revenge.
From this day forth, the sword will not confer glory.
Peace will be our cry, Mercy will be our habit, Life
will be our goal... He fell silent, his soldiers
wrapped him in plain blankets, and he seemed spent
and voiceless. A gentle rain began to fall,
almost a mist. He rallied himself, and in a loud, clear
voice of command he shouted, Look up into the sky, my citizens,
the gods themselves are sending their blessings on our new world!