Many citizens of virtue
Smell quite bad upon this earth, while
Lackeys wear the sweet perfumes of
Lavender and ambergris.
There are souls so virginal that
Still are reeking of green soap,
While, at times, degraded Vice has
Washed with essences of roses.
So, don't crinkle up your noses,
Dearest readers, if the cave of
Atta Troll does not remind you
Of Arabia's delicacies.
Stay here in the hazy circle,
In the turbid foul aromas,
Where the hero, to his son, as
If from out a cloud doth speak:
"Child, my child, thou youngest offspring
Of my loins, now lay thy one ear
On the snout of thy begetter
And absorb my earnest words!
Guard thyself 'gainst human thinking,
It will spoil thee, soul and body;
Not in all humanity is
There one fair and decent human.
Not the Germans, once the betters,
Not Tuisco's° sons themselves,
Fathers from a time primeval,
All the same, degenerated.
They are faithless now and godless,
Preaching even atheism -
Child, my child, thou must beware of
Feuerbach° and also Bauer!°
Only be no atheist,
Not a non-bear with no awe for
The creator - yes, creator
Of this universe entire!
In the heights, the sun and moon,
And the stars (the ones with tails on
Equally with those without them)
Are reflections of His power.
In the depths of land and ocean
Are the echoes of His glory,
And doth each and ev'ry creature
Praise His majesty with singing.
Yes, the smallest silver louse,
Riding in the aging pilgrim's
Beard upon the pilgrimages,
Sings the praise of the Eternal!
Up there in the starry heavens,
On the gold chair of the ruler,
Governing the world, majestic,
Sits a giant polar bear.
Spotlessly and snow-white gleaming
Is his pelt; upon his head a
Lovely diamond crown adorns him,
Shining brightly through the heavens.
In his visage, harmony
And the silent acts of thinking;
With the scepter beckons he,
And the spheres are tinkling, singing.
At his feet there sit the pious
Bearish saints, who calmly suffered
On the earth, and in their paws are
Palm boughs of their martyrdom.
Sometimes springs up one, and then the
Other, wakened by the Holy
Ghost, and then behold! They're dancing
Such a stately, solemn dance -
Here, where grace is emanating,
Talent is unnecessary,
And for blessédness the soul doth
Seek to jump from out its skin!
And shall I, unworthy Troll,
E'er take part in such salvation?
And from lowly earthly moping
Pass into the realm of rapture?
And shall I, all drunk with heaven,
Up there in the starry regions,
With the glory, with the palm branch,
Dance before the throne of God?"
http://davidsbuendler.freehostia.com/troll3.htm
Smell quite bad upon this earth, while
Lackeys wear the sweet perfumes of
Lavender and ambergris.
There are souls so virginal that
Still are reeking of green soap,
While, at times, degraded Vice has
Washed with essences of roses.
So, don't crinkle up your noses,
Dearest readers, if the cave of
Atta Troll does not remind you
Of Arabia's delicacies.
Stay here in the hazy circle,
In the turbid foul aromas,
Where the hero, to his son, as
If from out a cloud doth speak:
"Child, my child, thou youngest offspring
Of my loins, now lay thy one ear
On the snout of thy begetter
And absorb my earnest words!
Guard thyself 'gainst human thinking,
It will spoil thee, soul and body;
Not in all humanity is
There one fair and decent human.
Not the Germans, once the betters,
Not Tuisco's° sons themselves,
Fathers from a time primeval,
All the same, degenerated.
They are faithless now and godless,
Preaching even atheism -
Child, my child, thou must beware of
Feuerbach° and also Bauer!°
Only be no atheist,
Not a non-bear with no awe for
The creator - yes, creator
Of this universe entire!
In the heights, the sun and moon,
And the stars (the ones with tails on
Equally with those without them)
Are reflections of His power.
In the depths of land and ocean
Are the echoes of His glory,
And doth each and ev'ry creature
Praise His majesty with singing.
Yes, the smallest silver louse,
Riding in the aging pilgrim's
Beard upon the pilgrimages,
Sings the praise of the Eternal!
Up there in the starry heavens,
On the gold chair of the ruler,
Governing the world, majestic,
Sits a giant polar bear.
Spotlessly and snow-white gleaming
Is his pelt; upon his head a
Lovely diamond crown adorns him,
Shining brightly through the heavens.
In his visage, harmony
And the silent acts of thinking;
With the scepter beckons he,
And the spheres are tinkling, singing.
At his feet there sit the pious
Bearish saints, who calmly suffered
On the earth, and in their paws are
Palm boughs of their martyrdom.
Sometimes springs up one, and then the
Other, wakened by the Holy
Ghost, and then behold! They're dancing
Such a stately, solemn dance -
Here, where grace is emanating,
Talent is unnecessary,
And for blessédness the soul doth
Seek to jump from out its skin!
And shall I, unworthy Troll,
E'er take part in such salvation?
And from lowly earthly moping
Pass into the realm of rapture?
And shall I, all drunk with heaven,
Up there in the starry regions,
With the glory, with the palm branch,
Dance before the throne of God?"
http://davidsbuendler.freehostia.com/troll3.htm
No comments:
Post a Comment