The Last Judgement, Saint Bavo Hieronymus Bosch (1450-1516)

FRUIT OF THE MIDDLE AGES
1

A duke in a crimson-trimmed cloak,
And hounds with spurs and weapons keen.
The marketplace, with its clamor loud,
A bustling Babylon, it would seem.

Further on, the cathedral soars,
Its mighty walls against the sky.
Forty years they built it, what of age?
The architect knows countless schemes.

The citys alleys twist and turn,
A labyrinth, no doubt.
And the alchemist peers into his flask,
Where something that defies death is brewing.
In the tavern, a crimson hearth glows,
Hearty food, both rich and savory.
A sense of safety fills the air,
Though brawls sometimes erupt.

2

In the tavern, the atmosphere is warm, and here a poet
Gets drunk – he has no strength to cope
With his desire to recite verses – he recites.
The innkeeper brings soup in a kettle.
A wild mob surrounds him – foolish.
Outside, darkness falls, the day wanes.
Heres an inn. Straw lies scattered on the yard.
Horses are tethered. The fire in the window glows.
In the distance, a castle. You hear someone singing by the river,
And that can clear your mind.

3

In the laboratory, the alchemist
Is like he is in a kitchen or
A cave – bearded, solitary.
Blue smoke rises. Its evening in the city.

The world of kitchens, pipes, and chimneys
Will not give us the philosophers stone.
Golden seeds – a sum of sprouts.
The alchemist gazes into the mouth of fire...

4

An execution is like a spectacle. Fat
Citizens stand there, ruddy-cheeked.
Each one here is clearly well-fed,
But what about entertainment? For the boundaries
Of anothers (ah, thankfully not ones own!)
Pain are alluring.
Wives and husbands stand there.
White wimples – life is like that...

5

Students argue. A collection of
Terms (fruits) of theology are given to them today.
What is better than learned debates?

Someone brought a lot of firewood in a cart to the marketplace. As for disasters,
They have no faith in them, if faith is abolished.
You, prelate – and you yourself are a sprout, a branch
Of a tree that is impossible to see, though the distance may be enticing...

6

The scholars robe is black.
Are there answers? Or just questions?
The street is straight, like a string –
Where, philosopher, if you look askance
At reality – what did you see?
Is it interesting or not –
Hooves clatter – that rider is coming.
Golden water of the past! Against many branches,
A winter river, and as bare as fear,
The expanse. Hunters, dogs.
And the flame turns red. Im tired.
Heres a tavern. All perspectives are twofold
In general. Boys skate on the river.
And the city, a black-and-white mass in the distance,
Will satisfy curiosity like hunger.

7

The fruit of the Middle Ages ripened for a long time:
Here is a pomegranate – but it has thousands of seeds.
In the workshop, the artist was often bold,
Unconquered by thoughts.
Centuries were spent building cathedrals, dust,
Sweat, fatigue, hard work.
The bottle that gave us water
Is empty. Is there freedom at all?
The church loves power. There is war.
And the roads are dangerous now.

A vast depth of time!
Reserves of the past!