Fate merchants from Paris sewers,
Creme de la creme of canaille, Aristocrats of la Grande Cloaque Usurped our hope And with queer odds bet it against French nation. With cardinal points slanting Away from the freedom map, Lost the Fatherland in cards Marked by secret republican signs. The same barbaric gamblers Spewed by their indigenous lair Stoned me down from my elemental hearth; Let the Prophets believe they ensnared Also my ancestral feelings, Let the mobocrats hypothesize The present odium arrogated my hereditary honor And shortened the thousand years of French glory, As if her history started with Marat's birth, Continued with the capitulation Of several invalids in Bastille Whilst January metamorphosed to Nivose. He was born as kind of reality With man's external marks By Nature's sinister aberration As placebo in its comparative experiment. He has lived like a designated animal And died under my knife, Victim of his birth, life and death aggregated, With animal endowment regnant. It is potentially easy to play with ideas But not like with marionettes; Rather like with a keg of gunpowder, Because like powder, the doctrines Might suddenly explode manifesting prejudice In hubris or an error And without motive; action without motive Like reaction to nothing, Like an end without beginning Has horrible consequences. Without rational genesis Chain of ideology corrodes into a circle Where any link can pretend to be the origin; Nevertheless, none concedes to be the terminal From which few guesses escape, But no idea can filter in. If the thoughts revolt in pride The winners might suffer from blasphemy, But vanish by misinterpreting dialectic for logic; If in a blunder then men risk humility And drown in selfconflagration. And this happened. Marat did not succumb neither to words, Nor to tears, nor to blood, Nec igni nec ferro cedit. The sightless goddess Authorized me to bear witness to our vineyards, And I obeyed ; against Xerxes I followed Themistocles. Marat, the architect of Frances dominating steeples, The designer of cemeteries; I pursued the apostate anchorite To his hermitage where he was safe from feelings. By my by anger illuminated spleen I traced the gamblers' Pontifex; The goddess coerced me to guillotine; From each of them cascaded a liquid boulevard to him; It was evident: just to follow the carmine surge To the atelier of of his art. Like unalterable trajectory of destiny bullet I was propelled by the headless martyrs Holding their heads in front of my eyes and heart. Jean-Paul Marat corresponded a quondam man Faithful to his indigenous venom Who never can regain his human status. Anarchy, chaos, terror, abandon, and malice Converged upon his visionary savagery. In order to slow the sin That maturates before the perpetrator I had to interrupt the eternity. In prerogative regalia I introduced to the ad interim dead the permanent humanoid, The zookeeper of the Cordellier Club. Thus our homeland's vineyard spake: "Classical venom artist, scientific tyrant, Shark of dry land; In his mind murder was idealistic philosophy, Whereas compassion brought him misery And if protracted, death to his delusion. His solitary dread was delirium of normalcy. In order to salvage his finger Marat kept severing heads; Hercules in him envied Hydra's many of them, Vesalius in doctor detested They do not grow anon. Unlike Platonic love there is only real hatred. This should be the insanity of the predestined lunatic Monsieur Marat, A negative man, cells minus soul. Robespierre proclaimed To save hundred thousands He had to execute one.
He did not save one, However, massacred the surplus. Thereupon he obliterated one And that one was the King . So did I and mine one was the Marat. I did not need to cover my ears To his call for help Neither did i shiver nor lost one heartbeat; Pitilessly, I was missing Villon with troupe of drummers Beating a rambunctious serenade Under his den's balcony To eulogize the dead of the September Massacres And the Reign of Terror. The coalition of scum, hypocrites and impostors Found Loire deep enough To accept into its depths More condemned boats; An enterprising hunter can always find a way To kill more rabbits, wild geese or people Because good is never absolute; The evil is, though. Men were not exactly cowards, They did not know how to stab And thence did not act; I did did know either how to slay yet i knew how to grow to a slayer. And that was sufficient. When the impetuous time Will force itself upon them It will be late for Robespierre, Danton As well as other entrants Into their void circus Like a droopy sentinel After overlong hours On an exposed position Cradles his en garde pike The trembling guillotine Will nestle my head And guide my soul through the incontrovertible exit To the right of the Creator. When about to be liberated I will pin a sign with my name on my breast So that the amnesic history men do not forget And those who do not forget Do not allow the eons to erase My numinous nome de guerre Charlotte Corday From the docket of the Revolutionary Sacraments Prayer Book, And do not let neither the Marat's kith and kin To metamorphose my handwriting on the wall Into Etruscan hieroglyphics. My prohibited tomb will germinate Deep in the French marrow Fleur-de-luce That God deigned to sent to King Clovis For his Sacrament of Baptism. The cross on my grave Will point triumphant crusaders To the majestic evidence of The Maid of Orleans. I will not capitulate to one wavering step, No one feminine teardrop will bedew my determination. Indoctrinate nurslings So that when they grow to manhood They will inherit me and while riding my tumbrill Become masters of Charlotte Corday And know who had grown for whose sake and to what, Who had paid whose debt, To whom and in what currency, Who will confirm which psalm to sing,
Who had died for whom.
No comments:
Post a Comment