TO EUROPE

Europe,

I came to spit into your face

You poisonous, dirty harlot.

In a huge, sad graveyard,

You are counting meager gains.

Look! But can you truly see

Through your treacherous stare?

I should fetch you a reflecting mirror,

before killing you.

Years ago you committed crime,

You nasty, rotten slut.

Everywhere mixed breed, fat animals,

That you have mated with.

What did the animals do while drunk by the Giant's fall?

Why are you silent, you harlot?

Without delay I will remind you.

He is the most tragic of all heroes,

his soil that was trampled all over.

He, who fought hopeless final battle

Against a pack of mad bastards.

He, who countlessly defeated

Opponent's forsaken formations.

Then he suddenly realized something went awry

With his previously ironclad calculated risk.

The fate, ugly as you are yourself,

With the same future achievements in the tow.

Interferring in already lost battle,

Just to save traitors.

Thus the giant's fall...

What's next, you lowly harlot?

What will they do, those in the shaddow

of your banner's fleeting glory?

The beaten hero whom you deposed onto the parched desert,

where the inevitable death awaits him

in the midst of the red hot furnace.

Starving, in misery, guarded by goons,

sickened by rotting food that was laced with English poison.

Among rocky hills that reach the sky limit,

The greatest Caesar is dying …

You bastards, what have you done

to the exhausted true Giant!

Today, a hundred years later,

how dearly you behold in endearment,

the new but a very mediocre king.

You became weak. Your weakness can excite only the scum

But the king, whom you now so feebly guard

Is no genius or price, after all…

No, not a genius. Only a monarch.

But actually a huge, habitual drunk.

He, whom the servants publically call a bastard,

is a true caricature of his forebears.

Yes, he only exists because of his pedigree,

He, desperately searching for crumbs to eat

after being kicked away from the trough.

He suits you, this mediocre king

he, the poor drunken sod.

You have beaten to death Napoleon, the Greatest One,

and now you promote your stupid protege.

What a difference between the prisoner at St. Helene,

and Madeira's false gleaming!

Europe, your face is so pitiful ...

as you cunningly knocked down a powerful Demigod.

Today you are only fit to foster a despicable flea.

She is your obvious darling, a pet

because you understand her the best.

The Emperor's greatness has since vanished,

But your useful idiot still lives. Can you hear me?

Hear the damnation I am throwing into the face

of nasty, shallow, and sinning creature,

Tearing off the hollow facemask,

that so cleverly concealed the cheeks.

But as terrible as you are,

you are not entirely guilty.

It is the ever controlling God,

whose largess is killing off the crop of the crème,

and aids the lowly, useless beasts!

Written: 29 January 1922, in Prague, on the occasion of the 100th anniversary of Napoleon's death in 1821.

Translated by Radoslav (Ray) Zavrel (USA) in the fall of 2017, to commemorate the 70th anniversary of the death of the dramatis and poet Frantisek Zavrel.

Dr. Frantisek Zavrel, an admirer of Napoleon and an opponent of communist and Soviet politics was politically persecuted and died in 1947 after being deprived of livelihood by the Czech Republic's 'executive orders', known as "Benes Decrees".

The freemason President Edvard Benes incited hatred toward the German people living in Bohemia and Moravia for the last 300 years. The result was the massive, inhuman ethnic cleansing through murder and mass expulsion of 3 million Germans from their ancestral lands after World War II, in 1945 and 1946.

Copyright 2017 Prometheus

PROMETHEUS, Internet Bulletin for Art, News, Politics and Science, Nr. 241, September 2017