God of the City

Upon a block of houses he sits wide.

The wind encamps all black around his brow.

Irate he stares, where in far solitude

Stray beyond the fields some last few houses.


At evening glows the ruddy gut of Baal,

The greatest cities kneel to him like choirs.

A monstrous heap of church bell after church bell

Up to him swells from dark a sea of spires.


The music drones a Corybante dance

Of millions ambling loudly through the streets.

The chimney smoke, the clouds of manufacture

Unto him cling, blue scent of incense sweet.


The weather smolders in his eyebrows twain.

The dark of evening unto night is dulled.

The storm winds flutter, like great vultures gazing

From out his great locks, in his wrath all horrid.


His butcher fist into the dark he soars.

He shakes it so. A sea of fire hunts

The length of one street. And the hot smoke roars

Consuming it, until the morning comes.


Georg Heym