Incessant torture

Nothing has changed.
The body is susceptible to pain,
It must eat and breathe air and sleep,
It has thin skin and blood right underneath,
An adequate stock of teeth and nails,
Its bones are breakable, its joints are stretchable.
In tortures all this is taken into account.

Nothing has changed.
The body shudders as it shuddered
Before the founding of Rome and after,
In the twentieth century
Before and after Christ.
Tortures are as they were,
It’s just the earth that's grown smaller,
And whatever happens seems right on the other side of the wall.

Nothing has changed.
It's just that there are more people,
Besides the old offences new ones have appeared,
Real, imaginary, temporary, and none,
But the howl with which the body responds to them,
Was, is and ever will be a howl of innocence
According to the time-honoured scale and tonality.

Nothing has changed.
May be just the manners, ceremonies, dances.
Yet the movement of the hands in protecting the head is the same.
The body writhes, jerks and tries to pull away,
Its legs give out, it falls, and the knees fly up,
It turns blue, swells, salivates and bleeds.

Nothing has changed.
Except for the course of boundaries,
The line of forests, coasts, deserts and glaciers.
Amid these landscapes traipses the soul,
Disappears, comes back, draws nearer, moves away,
Alien to itself,
Elusive,
At times certain,
At others uncertain of its own existence,
While the body is and is and is
With its incessant torture,
And has no place of its own.