Before thy tough, annoyed tirades.
And though they seem so harsh and crude,
Indeed! they have a grain of truth.
We must admit that our harps -
Their half-sacred and half-mourning sounds -
Alongst with sick imagination
Might bear the worst kind of creation.
After the bards had passed away
We took the lutes they’d play one day.
How sweet their air in our weak hands!
How mournful though, how full of pains!
‘Tis sad to hear these echoes fade,
‘This sad to know these lutes once played
To raise the souls from grief... But, pray,
Why do they sound so strange today?
‘Tis scary to touch these famous strings,
Which used to strain just like eagle’s wings,
Which knew how to move those souls asleep
And lashed lazy minds with a ruthless whip!
‘Tis scary to hear those songs from the past,
This marvellous work of bygone bards,
And sing different song amongst motley crowd:
a prisoner’s lament, this heart-breaking sound.
We know our impuissance, this treacherous snake,
In whose monstrous coils we suffer and shake;
We know our madness and its deadly force,
Which makes our singing sound weaker and worse.
We know we are silly, though tearful and lost,
We know we are shapeless like vapours or ghosts,
Now, we cannot deny that we bear the blame,
But first hear our reasons and let us explain.
For we are the children of a loveless age,
Without dreams of freedom or hope for a change,
The age which can’t tell true beauty and wit,
A dull, boring age, whithering from forfeit,
The age which grew old, though its face still looks young,
One which had forgotten its rights and its tongue.
We are its poor children, our lives sad and small,
We know it built nothing, just ruined it all.