The Scream devoured – The ThyssenKrupp worker

Lino Milita

The anonymous dead mystified
by mysterious profits,
rummage unchanged
miserable bones,
for the annuity granted
from the ring royal
of pagan remittance.

Textures entombed
with hands that are woven
errors mythologized,
retain mediocre
meat eaten
from bondage burning
of shouts devoured.

“The Silesian Weavers” by Christian Johann Heinrich Heine (Düsseldorf, December 13, 1797 – Paris, February 17, 1856), arose after the revolt of the weavers in 1844. Today we have workers that are consumed and “non-workers” that are emptied .

Heinrich Heine, image taken HERE

Deaths from “work” indicate that this poem is not the past. Here we have a cry. And today we have even more in the scream of the dead to the “do not work”

The Silesian Weavers

In lightless eyes there are not tears.
They sit at the loom and gnash the gears.
Germany, we weave the cloth of the dead
Threefold be the curse we weave ’round your head
We’re weaving, we’re weaving.

A curse to the god to whom we knelt.
Through the winter’s cold, such hunger felt.
In the past we hoped, we waited, we cried
You’ve mocked us and poxed us and cast us aside
We’re weaving, we’re weaving.

A curse on the king of the empire,
Who would not quell our misery’s fire.
He took every penny we had to give
Then shot us like dogs with no right to live
We’re weaving, we’re weaving.

A curse on the cold, ruthless fatherland,
Where outrage and shame fester by your hand,
Where blossoms are trampled under your boot,
Where rot and decay are allowed to take root.
We’re weaving, we’re weaving.

The shuttle is flying, the weaving looms roar.
Day and night we weave with you at our door.
Old Germany, we weave the cloth of the dead.
Threefold be the curse we weave ’round your head.
We’re weaving, we’re weaving.