The Mad Exchange

by Bertus Aafies

I cut myself seven branches,
I tied them together,
and I flayed myself,
but saw woodnymphs dancing
in the pools of my blood.

Then from the selfsame branches
I made an instrument,
cut slits and blew therein,
and every day I now
play my torture organ.

They expound the same,
flagellation and music
on the flute, the whip
and the seven-slot horn,
the same message of death.