Translated from the Czech by Radoslav (Ray) Zavrel

FIFTH OF MAY 1921

TO EUROPE

THE THIRD ODE

CREDO

THE ECSTASY

Look, the Earth is drowning again

In an orgy of intoxicating blossoms,

And the merciless sun

Is deceiving the world

Just like a hundred years ago

While a witness at your passing.

Perhaps the world does not recall

The man, who was a real Hero,

The strongest of them all,

Who actually created Europe's womb,

Now in betrayal, its blossoms

Sunk into the Inferno.

A human being is heartless,

But now in astonishment

Ponders about the Man,

Who grabbed the Lioness by her meager mane,

And went on to drag her forward.

A never ending chaos was destructive,

Europe was in a total madness,

He stepped up, looking decisively

And set his eye on her.

Then the chaos suddenly placated

Into a quiet, dancing star.

A real Hero. Like nobody

Ever before or after - he stepped

Over the crown glitter and the glory of thrones

And the mounds of guns and bodies.

Europe denounced him. In turn, he yelled:

En avant! En avant!

The establishment conspired

Against the only maverick,

Royal bastards

And Russian tzars' creatures alike.

He easily knocked them down

Like a wind gust brings down a leaf from tree.

Hail Victory! Oh, the glorious battles

Will be forever remembered!

Oh, the troops attacking

For glory of the Demigod!

Your deeds will live forever,

Just like from the first day!

Your own Pyramids are still alive,

Marengo, Rivoli,

Your victories at Austerlitz, Jena, Wagram &endash; are they gone?

No, they are forever alive!

One hundred years passed them by,

Just like a living dream!

Although possessed by demons

But still victorious at the end!

Who was then equal to you, ever?

Nobody! Limitless was

your merciless Triumph of the will,

and it became your slave and the executioner of yours.

You were destined to die,

Because you crossed the borders,

Created by the treachery of gods,

You honored and kept your word,

But not the Russians, or Prussians, or your foes,

You, yourself caused your own downfall!

The sick, rotting Europe

Only then heaved herself,

To shamelessly kill

The half unconscious Demigod,

Tried to cast him into the sea,

Which was actually his true friend.

You stood there quietly

Your eyes staring into the distance,

The white foam of the sea waves,

Was forming at your feet,

While all the chaos disappeared.

What did remain? Only your soul!

You saw once more

Your proud rise to the top,

You heard the glory trumpet,

And also saw banners flying high,

And the sound of your victorious battles

Was only music to your ears.

Face to face with the ocean,

Which became now part of you.

Why did you cross your hands,

Where did your glance aim?

Your great gesture of a conqueror,

What does it all mean now?

Is it the gratitude or the challenge,

Or the damnation after all?

In your burning eyes,

The tears have now appeared.

You think of your forlorn lover or about your heir?

Who will ever know? Without protest

You are returning to your shackles,

Guards and guns, on your behest,

One cannot even make a single move,

Hudson Love is menacing indeed,

And so is the damn entourage.

So you fell, our greatest Hero,

While the trumpets of revengers shrieked.

The battle dress you wore at the Marengo battle,

Will cloak you now, at the End.

A group of your comrades shed their tears

In the twilight of a wretched cell, at St. Helene Island.

Greater than all of those,

Who governed over the world before,

But you did not die -

Your determination was most maddening.

You will be immortal - above the judgement

of pitiful creatures in this world.

Your eternally loyal Old Guard

During the sounds of victorious trumpets,

Will always, always salute you

And rush into the fearsome attack.

The entire Christian world at your disposal,

Still clamors: Vive L'Empereur!

I came to spit into your face

You poisonous, dirty harlot.

In a huge, sad graveyard,

You are counting only meager gains.

Look! But can you truly see

Through your treacherous stare?

I would fetch you a reflecting mirror,

Before killing you myself.

Years ago you committed crime,

You nasty, rotten harlot.

Everywhere mongrelized, fat creatures,

That you have mated with.

What did the animals do, drunk by the giant's fall?

Why are you silent, you harlot?

Without pause I will remind you.

The most tragic of all heroes,

The soil that was trampled all over.

He, who fought hopeless battle

Against a pack of mad bastards.

He, who countlessly defeated

Opponent's forsaken columns.

He suddenly realized something went awry

With his recent calculated risk.

The fate, ugly as you are yourself,

And the same achievement in the tow.

Interfering in already lost battle,

Just to save traitors.

Thus the giant falls.

What's next you lowly whore?

What will they do, those who are basking in the shadow

of your banner fleeting glory?

The beaten hero whom you exiled to the arid desert,

where inevitable death awaits him

in the midst of the red hot furnace.

Starving, in misery, watched by guards,

Sickened by rotten food laced with English poison.

Among rocky hills that teach the sky limit,

The greatest Caesar is now dying…

You bastards, what have you done

to the exhausted true giant!

Today, a hundred years later,

how dearly you behold in endearment,

the new, very mediocre king,

You became weak. Your weakness can excite only the scum

But the king, whom you now so feebly guard

Is no genius, after all…

No, he is not a genius . Only a monarch.

And also a big, habitual drunk.

He, whom the servants publically call a bastard,

is a caricature of his forebears,

Yes, he exists only because of his pedigree,

He, looking actually for crumbs to eat

after being kicked away from the trough.

He suits you, this mediocre king

He, the poor drunken sod.

You have beaten to death Napoleon, the greatest one,

and now you promote your stupid protege.

But watch for the difference between the prisoner at St. Helene,

And the Madeira's false gleaming!

Europe, your face is so pitiful.

You cunningly knocked down the powerful Demigod,

But today you can only pet a despicable flea,

She is your obvious darling, a pet

Because you understand her the best.

The Emperor's greatness has since vanished,

But your useful idiot still lives. Can you hear?

Hear the damnation I am throwing into the face

of the nasty, shallow, and sinning creature,

Tearing off the hollow mask,

That so cleverly conceals the cheeks.

But as terrible as you are,

You are not entirely guilty,

Because it is the ever controlling God

whose largess is killing off the greatest ones,

but aids the lowly, useless beasts!

(Frantisek Zavrel, Prague, Czech Republic, 29 January 1922)

Not the lips of my beloved woman,

That intoxicate for a moment,

Not the undertaken deeds,

That turned into empty illusion.

Not when facing a heartless rival,

Who attacks you,

Not bound by sorrow, at your side

Staring you in the eyes.

Not during miserable surrender

Of your rival who suffered a strong blow,

Not then, when the sky's burning indigo,

Is threatening to devour you.

In those moments I don't feel being alive,

As something inside me is numb like a chilly spell.

Face to face with my rival, a woman, and the sorrow

I can remain quite unmoved.

Seeing your mysterious features,

I can only then be revived,

The word you uttered will reawaken me,

As it really brings my blood to boil.

Only you, the man of steel,

Can truly awaken me: What a legend!

The Austerlitz legacy is an intoxicant, once again,

And so is Jena, Wagram, and Montmirail.

In those moments I live intensely,

Than when resting on womens' breasts.

Your eagle's wings are attacking, smothering me

I feel them as if being half frozen.

I see your steely, watchful eyes

Can feel their stealth that knows no European border.

I fathom the upcoming legendary battle's opus:

Your white gloved hand in a famous gesture

Will indicate you are victorious….

You are beloved as a European Godsend,

Having been quiet for a hundred years while ignoring the mediocre men,

Through times that are flush with opulence.

Despite the opposition by today's idiots, do hear out my own gratitude!

I am grateful for the Grandeur that is melting me,

Thank you for my fate, which conspired in vain,

The fate, which I know am fighting again,

For the Victory, that still awaits: Thank you!

(Frantisek Zavrel, Paris/Prague, 1925)

The passing females resemble a midnight shadow,

They are sweet, capricious, and will you get you smitten,

I kneel at their feet like a man of a gone by era,

But my proud heart does not feel a remorse.

A different power is in charge now, the demons seemingly all tied-up.

In vain they try shaking unbreakable shackles,

Above them, the morning is already breaking,

Like a light of distant star fighting its extinction.

I refused the tragic fate while defeating demons,

The world ridden of devils made me only laugh,

I saw the world as pathetic, without value and without a screen,

My glance dissolved its nasty grimace.

The morning sunrise which I so much treasured,

The fire burning forever in my chest,

Is growing faster as I continue walking,

And will live forever in my heart.

My Credo is my only real possession,

That strengthens me while suffering among the imbeciles,

It is Him, the precious shadow, a defeated Hero,

Who transforms me every time I think of Him and of his ego.

My journey is long and is aimed toward the Sun,

Oh yes, I will counter my opponents as well as the peaceful doves,

Because I admire the real Hero in my steely heart.

Do as you wish but I am destined to reach my goal.

Where is the rabble that wore Him out,

Where are those merchants of perfidious Europe,

Where is that pack of mad, envious currs,

Where are those schemers, the imbeciles?

They all disappeared without a trace. Above old Europe,

Above the tired world that is ready to rot,

Above the lunacy of the riff raff, above the deluge of scum,

The only one light will burn, a shooting star.

Who is not blind, will see Him. His deeds truly shine,

His quick hand gesture indicates a Victory,

His followers fighting everywhere, from Rome to Moscow,

His war against all is now shaking the European ground.

He was Europe's fate and became her way of thought,

A flash in history, resembling wrinkles on his brow,

Europe, though trembling, will remember Him forever,

Like an old woman reminiscing fondly about a lover from her youth.

No, I have not grasped the substance of the Moment,

When I held my lover in my arms,

The Venus's hot lips, red hair and white breasts

That I was allowed to kiss and enjoy …

No, I did not touch that Moment,

When the victory seemed within the reach

Of the undefeated combatant,

Who succumbed to his defeat only when totally exhausted …

Not even when rising above the alluring ancient Rome

While kneeling at my beloved lady's feet,

Intoxicated by the youth, fame and the fullness of red wine,

Under the eternal Roman sky madness.

Not even then, when I saw my enemy,

Being defeated and crumpled into the dust

He gave me an evil eye which brought me to ecstasy,

as I fully enjoyed the damnation by my rival.

Now speechless I am while grasping tight

The Moment, a legendary topcoat without decorations.

I glare at Bonapart's hat adorned only by the French tricolor:

"Emperor! By your tomb I so deeply grieve!"

(Frantisek Zavrel, Paris, 3 September 1925)

"To gain a right estimate of a man's character, you must see him in adversity."

"A man cannot avoid his own destiny."

"They will tell you that I came to destroy your religion; believe them not. The answer is that I came to restore your rights, to punish the usurpers, and that I respect God…."

"I made war, of course; no doubt about it. But in every instance I was either forced to do so or I had a great political objective in my sight."

"One good spy is worth 10,000 men on the battlefield…."

"The English are lovers of liberty but one day they will regret winning the battle at Waterloo…"