Translated by Radoslav (Ray) Zavrel (USA)
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.
Copyright 2017 Prometheus
PROMETHEUS, Internet Bulletin for Art, News, Politics and Science, Nr. 241, September 2017