The Revolt, Poem by Emile Verhaeren

Toward a distant city of riot and alarm,
Where the bare knife of guillotines gleams,
In a sudden mad desire, my heart goes forth.

The muffled drums of so many days
Of deadly rage and storm,
Beat the charge inside men’s heads.

The old dial of a black belfry
Darts its disk into the depths of evening,
Against a sky of red stars.

Funeral knells of footsteps are heard
And great fires from twisted roofs
Tangle the capitals.

Those who can no longer have
Hope except in their despair
Have come down from their silence.

Tell me, what is it then that can be heard coming
Along the roads of the future,
So calmly terrible?

The hatred of the world is in the air
And fists to seize the lightning
Are stretched toward the clouds.

It is the hour when the hallucinated,
The beggars and the uprooted
Raise their pride in life.

It is the hour—and it is over there that the tocsin rings;
Rifle butts beat against my door;
To kill, to be killed!—What does it matter!

It is the hour.

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-revolt-emile-verhaeren/