Hides the coffin and grants asylum to the sinner,
Before the bereaved abettors
Have time to create a majestic sarcophagus
The elected dead start lying
And we, the absolutely deceased,
Applaud the lies.
Citizen Marat, as likely as not a former creature
Was originally an inevitable human,
Lived like an IL-defined animal,
Ceasing as summary of a stray mongrels
And something beyond definition of eminent universities
Must have happened between he was constituted
In nature's aberration and between the instant
He was recalled to the inferno by demise
From thirst for blood in the moral desert,
The worst of the thirsts in the worst of the deserts.
It could not be his human propensity;
For his brain machinery was calibrated to the genuine viciousness.
The waves of weeping willows silence the prosecutor's clamor
while the Bishop is chanting "Quem patronum rogaturus?"
But not this Bishop, not this lament,
And not for this corpse;
In Saint-Etienne-Du-Mont cemetery
A tomb gnashes his teeth for absolution.
This death is not catalyst for mercy
And this grave has not purpose;
Do not plant there neither wild violets
Nor garden orchids but belladonna lily,
For neither flower nor a litany of an ancient
Will blunt the edge of the Marat's heart and tongue;
They continue as swords.
God will not forgive you, maudlin widows,
One stalk of a plant or hay, the food of horses
That in a stable the menial groom throws to the animals.
Tear the cowl from your face, penitent Carmelite,
Reflect on prophet Elias,
How his sapience discomfited
Four hundred and fifty priests of Baal
On the Mount of Carmel.
Dry your uncalled for tears, misguided pilgrims,
I am a poet, do not believe a single line of my lyrics,
Yet seek the truth in the stanzas spewed with choler,
Dry your uncalled for tears, misguided women
, Do not waste your human compassion on an animal,
In lexicons, multilingual dictionaries and concordances
Written by erudite savants I did not find a name that would rhyme
With the malignity of Marat's creed.
Plotting la Grande Terreur
He composed a pernicious catalogue of the victims;
But I am calculating , too.
My syllabus is shorter,
Notwithstanding, i know it by memory,
With my heart in position, with my brain triggered by the heart
And his anonymous spirit on the top of my calendar.
Help me to Baptize him with a befitting anathema.
Either my or his list is bootless
Upon his return I will perish,
When I conquer his resurrection will fail
Because there are few of us to strangle that memory;
When books' wisdom did not reveal
The matching word for a fiend
And the professors tongues hang in paralysis
I tried the catacombs of history credible cannibals;
After scrutinizing the vocabulary of Timur the Lame,
I listened to nations imprecating
In many tongues Genghis Khan
And studied the execrate appellations of the Scourge of God.
Christians were modest in their precis of Nero,
The amateur violinist yet professional like Marat.
When my drudgery foundered
In order to find the proper name for an animal
I turned to the archfiend;
He suggested for the man in the Paris pit mellifluous epithets:
"Ogre","brute","beast", and "monster" or his own dignified stage name.
In the absolute meaning of iniquity
None of them approaches the meaning of man
Or shall the juror say "paraman?"?"
They appear sooner an encomium than damnation;
Proper curse somewhat for Saint-Just, the Lyon cripple Couthon
Or their Vade mecum, the incurable lupus of France, The humpback Robespierre;
Only for the September gore
Marat was worth a more miasmatic canonization
And a slow, much slower, yet finally fatal vulgar lupus;
A classically simple, nearly comfortable murder by knife
Of such subhuman creature
Substantiate the existence of the merciful God
More rationally than Aquinas dogmas
Or Augustine scholastic proofs.
I believe and will believe: but, please, my Lord and my God,
I object; I protest against your law;
Lamb of God, Who takest away the sins of the world,
Do not have mercy on him,
Lamb of God, Who takest away the sins of the world,
Do not have mercy on him,
Lamb of God, Who takest away the sins of the world,
Do not grant him peace, Peace everlasting.
Do not grant eternal peace unto him, O Lord
And do not let perpetual light shine on him;
May not the ranks of angels receive him,
And with Lazarus, the poor man ,
May he not have eternal rest.
Palliate or tolerate my ominous turn into Julian the Apostate;
Catapult me to the Gehenna
Rather than exculpate this creature depravity. He remonstrated with congenial slayers
Who did not need any instigation,
To be beware of prostituting their incense
And proclaimed that sundering of five or six hundred heads
Will ensure repose, freedom, and happiness;
What is the stage name for this thespian?
The iconoclast whose theology
Was killing and who mastered and perfected
The craftsmanship of villainy,
Has the birthright to an unparalleled malediction.
There is the primordial privilege
To kick harder the carcases of the men who initiate carrions
Than that of average brutes
And spit on the graves of those
Who cultivated the aesthetic of graves.
From this mandate justice reads the wisdom
That beside different gods
There are the different children of gods,
That besides the law of the gods
There is the canon of the children
Which does not condone the grace,
While in condemning charity commands vengeance.
Like benignity belongs to Heavens
So must the punishment of the secular.
In this I am with you, Almighty.
All gods and all Kings Marats had fought
Obligatory wars against their neighbours;
All experienced their general Dumouriez;
All gods, nevertheless, not all Kings
Paraded imperiously through
The Capital of their selected defeats.
Marat was probably not a king
And only leftover demigod, a byproduct of creation,
His existence furnishing an extension of Robespierre,
While his annihilation Robespierre's rigor mortis;
Still he marched; And is marching;
Then against whom, if not against all?
Neither his Eastern nor Western wickedness has an end;
Neither his Northern nor Southern cortege
Advancing on the blind path
Failed to pause at each charnel house since a guillotine was evermore handy;
Lutetia's endurance was beyond guillotine
But not too much.
He never moved from the corpses' focus
Thus as a corpse he was certified. I
In the cemetery the trees are hymning
Or are they souls moaning? He knows;
Howbeit, anchored to his tombstone,
Marat still hates and will not tell.
Let us assume they must be souls
Bayoneted by the trees' agony
Whilst bayoneted France is waiting
Saxe-Coburg-Gothas, Habsburgs, sovereigns and politicians
Offer their backs to Paris mob
Like when they had left porphyrogenete born Byzantium
Alone in the closing fist of barbarians
to wait in vain for Europe's wand;
Wands are domain of fairies and fairies are human
While monarchs are warlocks who wave dull swords
And unloaded guns with safety on.
Let us save at least the willows
Expecting a mistral of prodigious ferocity
To uproot them and drag them
To the far away barrens
Rather than as sentries dignify the Marat's lair.
I relinquished my post at the inquest
At the Chapelle Expiatoire
Since all my hatred did not match
God's mercy for a real yet nameless sinner.
Up to this i was with you, Father,
Up to the time he was forgiven
And I was banished to a vacuum.
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