Late at night, a speaker watches black carts move slowly down a lamp-lit street, loaded with scarlet geraniums that glow like fire against the dark. The carts feel both funereal and ceremonial, as if the city is staging an ancient ritual. The red flowers become more than flowers: they are the day’s memories shaped into flame—lust, joy, blood, and death. The crowd, exhausted and hoarse, reaches toward them with crushed hands, praising them noisily before they vanish into silence. There is awe here, but also pain and exhaustion. The speaker offers no comfort or clear resolution, only a strange urban vision that is beautiful, violent, and mournful at once. The mood is hypnotic and uneasy, like witnessing something sacred that cannot be fully understood or held.
Irradiations XXVI — Summary
Slowly along the lamp-emblazoned street, Amid the last sad drifting crowds of midnight Like lost souls wandering, Comes marching by solemnly As for some gem-bedecked ritual of old, A monotonous procession of black carts Full crowded with blood-red blossom: Scarlet geraniums Unfolding their fiery globes upon the night. These are the memories of day moulded in jagged flame: Lust, joy, blood, and death. With crushed hands, weary eyes, and hoarse clamour, We consecrate and acclaim them tumultuously Ere they pass, contemptuous, beyond the unpierced veil of silence.