24
!'ARTISAN REVIEW
forth, and this is only right, upon the sacred city. Defend yourselves
now, strike! strike me first, you possess the truth! 0 my masters,
they will then conquer the soldiers, they'll conquer the word and
love, they'll spread over the deserts, cross the seas, fill the light of
Europe with their black veils-strike the belly, yes, strike the eyes–
sow their salt on the continent,
all
vegetation,
all
youth will die out,
and dumb crowds with shackled feet will plod beside me
in
the
world-wide desert under the cruel sun of the true faith, I'll not be
alone. Ah! the pain, the pain they cause me, their rage is good and
on this cross-shaped war-saddle where they are now quartering me,
pity! I'm laughing, I love the blow that nails me down crucified.
How silent the desert is! Already night and I am alone, I'm
thirsty. Still waiting, where is the city, those sounds in the distance,
and the soldiers perhaps the victors, no, it can't be, even
if
the
soldiers are victorious, they're not wicked enough, they won't be
able to rule, they'll still say one must become better, and still millions
of men between evil and good, torn, bewildered, 0 Fetish, why hast
thou forsaken me? All is over, I'm thirsty, my body is burning, a
darker night fills my eyes.
This long, this long dream, I'm awaking, no, I'm going to die,
dawn is breaking, the first light, daylight for the living, and for me
the inexorable sun, the flies. Who is speaking, no one, the sky is not
opening up, no, no, God doesn't speak in the desert, yet whence
comes that voice saying:
'If
you consent to die for hate and power,
who will forgive us?' Is it another tongue in me or still that other
fellow refusing to die, at my feet, and repeating: 'Courage! courage!
courage!'? Ah! supposing I were wrong again! Once fraternal men,
sole recourse, 0 solitude, forsake me not! Here, here who are you,
torn, with bleeding mouth, is it you, Sorcerer, the soldiers defeated
you, the salt is burning over there, it's you my beloved master! Cast
off that hate-ridden face, be good now, we were mistaken, we'll be–
gin
allover again, we'll rebuild the city of mercy, I want to go
back home. Yes, help me, that's right, give me your hand...
A handful of salt fills the mouth of the garrulous slave.
(Translated from the French
by
Justin O'Brien)
