How glorious are the murderers,
the brigands, the pirates, the thieves!
All hail to the tyrant, dictator,
to the autocrat, butcher and beast!
What laws they impose, what order,
to secure their fortunes and states,
and how - by way of consolation for the meek,
or further to enhance their power
and have their names
extolled -
they include amongst their train:
priests, philosophers, poets
and clowns.

(Ah the virtue they bequeath,
the wisdom,
the music, the pictures,
the laughs…)

So let’s hear it for pogroms and slaughter,
for atrocities, torture and rape,
and let us reflect
had monsters never roamed the earth,
you, reader, would not now be scanning these lines;
nor wondering if,
in writing them,
my purpose is ironical

Travellers,
who returned from their journeys
and wrote of what they’d seen.
(Or painted it, or sang.)
These, he maintained, were
artists.
And though he rarely stirred from his room
or from his own small circle of friends,
the weakness of his eyes, he said,
was due to gazing too long
on deserts.

You’d think
when not obliged to
he wouldn’t go out in the fields.
Rather lie on the ground
and drink himself stupid.
Sing sad songs.
Or dream of the day
when he -
or his heirs -
would be free.
Instead,
winter or summer,
rain or sun,
in the hot midday or the freezing night —
there he is, slaving away.
Hoeing, sowing, reaping, tending -
treating each plant as if it were his
and he would gain from its growth.

Doesn’t he know?
Doesn’t he mind?
Yes, he sometimes tries to say:
of course.
But that’s the only life
he has,
the only love,
and should he give it up…
Generally, however, he keeps quiet.
Why explain?
They wouldn’t understand,
and even if they did,
although they ask,
they don’t really care.
Better to save your breath,
your energy,
for that.
And for those rare, great days
when, out amidst the crops,
you find some red perfect poppy
growing wild,
and you get a sort of inkling
of what other folk mean
when they talk about God.

Love was willing to partner him,
As were Laughter, Beauty and Youth,
But he the fool scarcely glanced at them
And danced all evening with Truth.

How pious he looked as he led her around,
How smug as he asked her to waltz;
And how shattered at dawn when she took off her mask
And revealed she was ugly, and false.

They’ll probably be asleep when you get there.
“Do Not Disturb.”
Or they’ll be tetchy -
“No, we don’t want to see anyone today!” -
or away for the weekend.
“Were they expecting you? No?
Well, I’m sorry…”
Moreover, being a rational, sceptical sort of guy
you don’t believe they’re possessed of magic powers.
Just a lot of capricious, sometimes heartless jokers,
doing what they want, indifferent
on the whole
to the fate of others
and careless with mortals’ lives.
Yet you must make this trip,
however rough the road, however much
you’d really like to stay home.
And you must, when you arrive, offer them your gifts.
Talents, riches, children...
For if you don’t, you can be sure that
piqued
they’ll track you down, destroy you;
or worse,
they’ll put a curse
on all you weren’t prepared to give
and laugh as it turns to dust.
Besides,
if you don’t go there,
where are you going to go?

Pale blue and delicate, they smelled both sweet and faintly
of death.
"Thank you," she said, "they're beautiful."
Yet, perhaps just because they were -
or because of that unsettling scent -
although she smiled as she took them,
her eyes expressed a certain
fear.
As if she'd been reminded
she had always found him chilly,
and he liked to say that beauty, and art,
required sacrifice.
Still, monster or no,
she had loved him for many years,
and she was grateful and touched by the gift.
So she tried to mask her disquiet,
and didn't insist
when she asked where he had found them -
and he replied, "Oh, you know,"
and gave a vague, uncomfortable wave...

Shortly after, he left,
looking sad, but relieved she hadn't pressed him;
that he hadnt had to tell her
he had picked those flowers from her grave.

D'un azzurro pallido, e delicati,
Odoravano sia di dolce
Che di morte.
"Grazie" lei disse. "Sono bellissimi."
Ma forse proprio perche lo erano -
O per via di quel profumo disturbante -
Sebbene sorridesse mentre li prendeva,
I suoi occhi mostravano una certa
Paura.
Come si fosse ricordata
Che l'ha sempre trovato freddo,
E che gli piaceva sostenere che la bellezza,
E l'arte,
Richiedono sacrifici.
Comunque, mostro o no,
L'ha amato per molti anni,
Ed era commossa,
E grata per il dono.
Percio, ha cercato di mascherare la sua
Inquietudine,
E non ha insisto quando gli ha chiesto
Dove li aveva trovati -
Ed ha risposto, "0, sai..."
E ha fatto un vago, imbarazzato gesto.
Poco dopo se ne ando,
Con l'aria triste, ma sollevato
Che non ha ripetuto la domanda;
Che non ha dovuto dirle
Che ha raccolto quei fiori
Dalla sua tomba.

It was a beautiful summer's evening:
the sky still faintly blue, a gentle breeze
and the crickets clacking in the trees…

The times, as ever, were out of joint.
But those assembled did the best they could
and tried, on the whole, to remain good-
humoured. They saw no point
in constantly wringing their hands and weeping
over things they could do little about.
So when one of their number started to shout
and insisted on people keeping
their eyes fixed firmly on "the truth,"
they begged him to turn the volume down.
They weren't deaf or blind, they said, and they'd known
what he was telling them for years – indeed, since youth.
Speak softly, they went on, and please,
let us just bask in the last rays
of the sun, lie back and enjoy these final days
of summer, the crickets and the evening breeze.
Of course, they concluded, beauty isn’t all;
but it will soon enough be fall.