Français
Español
Italiano
Deutsch
Português
And there, that black monk, clad in a frock of mourning,
Builds, within his thought, a monument of pride.
He builds it, all alone, with his taciturn hands,
Through the burning vigil and the nocturnal fevers.
He raises it, in one cast, upon the gaping Creeds,
Like a stone lighthouse at the edge of the oceans,
He seals within it his ardor and his mystic fervor,
And his false knowledge and his ascetic doubt,
He hurls into it his strength and his iron reason
And the fire of his soul and the cry of his flesh,
And the work stands there, upright, like a living tower,
Thrusting ever higher its tranquil terror,
Borrowing its greatness from its isolation,
Under the serene and clear defiance of the firmament,
While at the summit of the rigid spirals
Shine sinisterly, like pale jewels,
Like cold gazes, measuring God in the heavens,
The blasphemies of the great silent monk.
*
So he lives, like a suspect among his brothers,
A deserted tomb, emptied of its cinerary urns,
Damned with shadow and evening, which Satan gnaws and bites,
A moral leper, warming death against his skin,
His heart tortured, through entire nights,
His mouth dead to sacred songs, dead to prayers,
His brain weary from enormous tensions,
His eyes burned by the red fire of visions,
His courage hesitating, despite his clairvoyance,
To fearfully break the plainchant of beliefs,
Which throughout the whole world take their flight
And of which Rome, over there, is the golden dovecote,
Until the day when, driven by his hatred too strong,
He at last possesses himself and clamors his dead faith
And stands massive, beneath the unfurled azure,
With his broad vermilion brow of a thunderstruck man.
*
Then he will be great with human greatness,
His pride will blaze under the Roman thunder,
His name will be cried out in rage and in love,
His projected shadow will darken the day,
Preachings, writings, diets, schools,
Sects will germinate around his words,
The whole world, promised by the popes to kings,
On the old Christian soil will see the cross tremble,
Disputes, cries, quarrels, hatreds,
Passions and furies, breaking their chains,
Like a tawny herd of great beasts let loose,
Will crush, between their teeth, the dried-up dogmas,
A wind come from the ancient depths of the earth
Will extinguish the torches around the sanctuary,
And night will fill it, gloomy, like a coffin,
From the deserted altar to the steps of the threshold,
While on the horizon will glow conflagrations,
Furious swords and brandished crosses.
Emile Verhaeren
Translation generated by Poésies 123 with assistance from the deepseek-chat artificial-intelligence model.
Text published on Poésies 123: https://www.poesies123.com/en/poem-the-heresiarch-emile-verhaeren/