Triveni Journal
1927 | 11,233,916 words
Triveni is a journal dedicated to ancient Indian culture, history, philosophy, art, spirituality, music and all sorts of literature. Triveni was founded at Madras in 1927 and since that time various authors have donated their creativity in the form of articles, covering many aspects of public life....
HITLER’S TABLELAMP
DR. R. V. R. CHAN DRASEKHARA RAO
The Fuhrer sat on his straight-ed wooden seat
Reading ~he maps and hearing the tumult of Wagner’s sounds Fingers tapping the table to keep the rhythm’s beat Obsessed with thoughts that nothing shall be beyond his bounds.
The tablelamp glowed with pinkish golden light
As the bulb’s rays pierced through the lamp shade.
The war lord seemed pretty soothed by the sight
As for a while from the obsession his attentions fade.
But, look! his steely eyes saw a thick drop of sweat
Ooze from the lamp’s fair and transparent tasselled fabric
And drip down the shade’s frame as melted sticky salt;
A thought flashed which even to him seemed barbaric.
Wasn’t the lamp a present that the loyal Himmler did bring
A tribute to his pure and ascetic ‘Mein Fuhrer’
From Belsen’s countryside, with a bunch of tulips, last spring
And deliver it, hands folded in prayer, imitating Durer.
The Hun recalled his minions boast of Germanic grit
In managing well the many crematoria for the living
Every part is used – teeth, hair and skin – every bit.
That prideful remembrance sent a message that was chilling.
The blob on the golden shade appeared to grow
Like the abominable and creeping slime in a SF movie.
He touched the drop, right hand hesitant and moving slow
Unable to resist feeling the whole thing repulsive and eerie.
He felt scalded, nay branded, by a revenge infernal
That sent through his frame shivers of terror
Untypical of one who wallowed in thoughts sepulchral.
He knew he was facing an apparition of holy horror.
He heard the avenging cries of a soft-skinned child
Torn away from her mother’s bosom to get her skin ftayed
The screams filled the leader’s ears as a chorus wailing wild
And made him rant and rave, his stern decorum flawed.
The sounds of hell and the feel of that slime
Sent him rushing to the refuge of the water closet
Reaching for the soap there to wash his alleged crime
Little realising the case against him was tight and shut.
As the lathered hands got washed with water hot
He remembered Himmler’s gift included cakes of soap:
Oh, by the Devil, wasn’t that made of human fat
And he trying to wash guilt with Satanic hope?
Thus did a little child accomplish her final retribution
Her once fair tender skin itself becoming the brandishing iron
To carve on an evil one the stigmata of the Devil’s creation
And despatch Hitler to damnation in the bosom of Eva Braun.