Behemoth

Behemoth

The Black Dragon

God created the beast Behemoth

on the fifth day

the greatest monster on earth,

a thousand mountains would

produce its fodder.

At the middle of

the journey of our life

It seems to me that I had a dream

And in that dream

I am suddenly woken up by

the fracas of deafening explosions.

I open my eyes

on infinite smoke and fog.

The incandescence of the ground

under my feet reveals to me that

I am in a dark and desolate place.

With one glance around me I discover

That I have arrived at the edge

of the well of hell.

This bottomless gulf of darkness

Roars ceaseless detonations.

I stare at the depths, astounded.

Besides a feeling of infinite terror

My eyes perceive nothing.

It is a place which

has been devastated.

In the past,

it abounded with mountain sources

And lush vegetation.

Today, not a single blade

of grass has survived.

Land of a silence of death.

There

I meet a guide

Burdened by the heavy

portrait of the dead

He walks, exhausted by

the dust of the voyage.

On the mountain where he comes from

the trails don't lead to paradise

He does not know how to write poems

But the poetry

emanating from his heart

Is no less powerful

than the Divine Comedy.

Degree after degree

Going down with my guide

I see the monster's puppets

Who execute invisible orders.

Step by step

I discern many living beings

Enduring the sufferings of labour.

The tender grass

pleasantly itching the skin

I know it

Will soon be crushed

under the heavy hardened mud.

The greatest sorrow of life:

living with hopeless desires.

All the gold mirroring under the moon

Never brought to

the exhausted humanity

A single moment of comfort.

The workers, all night,

smear themselves with murky makeup

Whether they're covered in powder

or simply wear a light touch

Does not depend on their mood

But on the force of the wind.

With this physical body

I can even feel from a distance

Those mechanical

vibrations coming from farther

In the past

We would sing in the light of the sun

and in the soft and joyful air.

But now

I cry the exhausted land.

My guide leads me

to this strange place.

It is said that the owner

of the mine had a dream

And in that dream

The god of the mountain

reproached him

for having dynamited his abode.

He built this statue of the Buddha

To calm his own anguish.

Thus

There, where wealth accumulates

And the men are uprooted

Everything is decreed by the monster

Who hides

Like this tempter of all desires.

I stare at his features,

like cooked by the molten steel

And bathing in sweat.

This ravaged face

Does not prevent me however

From seeing

acutely what he was in the past.

After the passage

through this red blaze

I come back to this dark

and deep valley

The creatures who are sorting

between charcoal and stone

Are still wearing their ink makeup.

The guide shows me the way

Towards his mountain

What a purgatory!

Evil roams the earth

And it will soon be its prey.

In this forest of tombstones

Maybe there are people that I know,

or that I've caught sight of

Who suffer, at this very instant,

or who have already been liberated.

In these passive crowds

There are, also, desperate souls.

Hopefully

Hell does not offer them a place.

The vision that terrifies me the most

is not this multitude of tombs.

It is that of the air stuffed

with poisonous dust.

It's that all living creatures

Up to the smallest worm,

will die from it

It will be the end of our world.

Through the dusty mist,

the consuming flames, the tombs,

and through the devastated homeland

All sacrifices transmuted into steel

Are confiscated to

build the paradise of our desires.

Can it be possible that

I am still dreaming?

Can it be possible that

I am already in paradise?

This brand new place

Is the end of all my chaotic dreams

Like a mirage,

after having surmounted

an oceanic storm.

In paradise

Everything is clean.

In paradise

Work is relaxing

A little bit boring even.

In paradise

The worth and sense of life

do not need to be judged.

In paradise

We see no inhabitants.

Here's what they call a ghost city.

And yet

This is not a dream

It is, indeed, us.

We are this monster

We are his servants.

According to statistics, hundreds of

"ghost cities" have recently

been built in China, inactive, vacant.

The zones thus developed are abandoned.

Millions of migrant workers suffer

from pneumoconiosis in China.

Hundreds of thousands

have already died from it.

In 30 years, the extraction of coal

has reduced the surface of lakes

in inner-Mongolia by 20% and has caused

inestimable damage to the grounds.

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