a poem by Jacob Frederik Horn, English
It’s the devil,
Sitting at the typewriter.
Finger to his cigarette,
He needs no lighter.
And he’s writing history,
Choosing fate for you and me.
He’s writing about bombs,
About hatred amongst man.
’Can’t he write about love?’ you ask.
No, he’s never been a fan.
So he’s hammering the keys—black on white.
Creating the shadows that haunt us at night.
But as he’s sitting there in flames,
Laughing about all the dead,
There’s one little thing,
He tends to forget.
At the break of dawn darkness can’t stay.
So I just close his book and put it away.