What does Ingeld have in common with Christ?

Inside Plato’s cave, in the Republic’s light, 
truth echoes with danger – a perilous sight. 
Behind the stage curtain, no interval’s grace – 
we don’t hear what sleeps beneath Leningrad’s face.

In asphalt, in Neva, a sunken word sings 
a harsh song of living, of vanishing things. 
A door slam like Faun’s tears the window apart – 
lives and fates crash together, and done is the start.

Thin crunch like mid;April on ice that still lies, 
squeals, clangs – in Archimedes’ hand the past lies. 
Star;leaves and a glade of grief, bitter and deep, 
sunlight we’ve never seen – a secret to keep.

A poisoned heart breathes not, the plague keeps it numb; 
a city rimmed with shame is deaf and is dumb. 
Only a murky mystery stirs in the night, 
calling me, luring me to its last trace of light.

The tracks cool down – hearts, murderers, all fade away – 
Beowulf’s lost in a bitter cold day. 
I’m not Judith – I won’t be your saviour, not me – 
just a poet, blessed by Orpheus on his spree.

Not Prometheus chained me for godless disgrace, 
nor in Bethlehem I’ll raise generals in place. 
Holofernes’ killer? No strength in my hand – 
just a lyre tuned to one string, at my command.

No hundred;and;five years in the Anglo;Saxon zone, 
no poem named after me, not a single one known. 
A handful of alliterations bites like a wing – 
the kenning won’t fire from the pen, not a thing.

The whale;road in Archimedes’ hand is held tight – 
a dotted;line syllable: how the planet is right. 
And the question that stays on the lips, never gone: 
“What does Ingeld have in common with Christ?” – from dusk to dawn.

Not from a manuscript, not from a Germanic song – 
I’m born of an Indian fire, reckless and strong. 
Junius Codex, Vercelli Book – side by side they gleam, 
opened anew in the quiet of Italy’s dream.

I’m no Caedmon, no Hrothgar to sing you a lay, 
no peaceful feast;light thrown to eternity’s sway. 
My voice is too broken – it won’t rise as a hymn – 
I dissolve in the world where all words grow dim.

Not the Ruthwell Cross will tell you the height, 
not the Gospel’s garden unveil the true light. 
Only a shimmer, a sound on the pavement’s grey line, 
in the windows of high;rises – a sound at the finish;line.

I’m no Drachmal who fashions our worlds out of nought – 
just a helper, a small “god” who can’t do what he ought. 
The Franks Casket won’t know me, won’t carve my disguise, 
and Weland’s lock;slam no longer collects or replies.

But I’m not fed to the fierce she;wolf, not Remus’s kin – 
the Finnsburg fight in the capital? I don’t feel it within. 
In poetry wisdom gets tangled like serpents of stone 
with Saxon;girl tongues – and I leave it alone.

Leave gnomic verse to those poets who only sell air – 
not truth, not clarity – just a light poison to wear, 
a fine carat of mass culture, glittering and cheap. 
I won’t teach you – no “external gnomes” I keep.

For me a whale is a mammal, a creature of word – 
not devil, not ocean’s temptation, absurd. 
Just the making of worlds in the trays and the slums – 
no ;sir chase me where the precipice drums.

No spirit;embraces, no Deor’s pardon for wrong, 
no Viking invasion – I’ve not seen it for long. 
Only new scandals bred in the real, in the fake – 
“Isle of the Dead” in my nights makes my every nerve ache.

It’s ready to bind me to life’s endless thread – 
desert distances blur what’s ahead. 
I walk blind and weary, ready for sleep, 
while the only thing left is a question so deep:

“What does Jesus have in common with Ingeld – 
at the end of all ages, when time has been quelled?”