by Brett Rutherford
Adapted from Victor Hugo, l'Annee Terrible, "December 1870"
Ah! it is a dream! No! we did not consent to this.
Stand up, anger in your heart, sword in hand,
Some paving-stones, stand tall and raise them in unison!
France! what is this war?
We refuse to be invaded by some clownish,
medieval bandit — God owes us Attila.
Always, when it pleases Fate to overthrow a great empire
a noble people, in whom humanity thrives,
like Rome or Thebes, respectful Fate serves
up some august and wild monster of the desert.
Why this affront? It’s too much. You resign yourself to it?
You, France? No, never! Certainly we were worthy
to be devoured, people, and now we are eaten!
It’s too much to have said to yourself: We will be slaughtered
nobly, like Athens, Memphis, Troy or Solima,
greatly, in the flash of some sublime struggle! —
but instead we feel something biting, down below,
in the shadows, prey to this undignified scratch and itch —
gnawed at by looting and theft, plagues and famines —
we hoped for lions, but we are attacked by vermin!
No comments:
Post a Comment