Job
“What injury can I cause unto thee
O, thou guardian of man? Why hast thou
Set me as an object to strike at so
That I am become a burden to mysself?”—Job.
Infinite might, thou tyrant of worlds!
The earth and the suns, the stars and the planets,
They are all nothing but toys for thee—
A means to kill time and only to shorten
The long and tedious procession of years,
Of which even thou cannot be freed.
And though recklessly strewn o'er vast spaces,
Whose distances none but thou couldst measure,
Yet are they helplessly bound like slaves
And chained to thy will, thy whims and thy fancies.
Secure and eternal are those mighty pillars,
Supporting thy solitary despotic throne.
No guards thou needest to watch o'er thy slaves;
Thy eye is their escort through billions of miles.
And every one of their movements thou hast
Already foreseen and in advance calculated.
And then, when satiety wearied thy eye
With suns and stars and systems of planets,
Whose charm of newness faded in time,
Destroyest thy structure with thunder and lightning;
Just as a child, playing with blocks,
Builds himself houses and suddenly destroys them.
Then in dark vacancy, alone thou sittest,
Ruminating o'er new plans, again to create
Out of thousands of worlds, a novel toy
To disport and satiate thy cruel God-fancy.
But all that sufficed not to amuse thee—almighty.
The enormous grandeur of systems which thou hast
Constructed in order to annul at thy pleasure;
Soon even that bored thee, and thou hast
Exerted thy boundless supreme acumen,
An infinitesimal creature—a man to create.
Thou playest with him now and smilest with joy,
While the poor moth down, suffers and struggles.
Fluttering and swirling, his powerless wings
Are entrapped in a spider-web of pangs and torture,
Into which thou hast his soul entangled.
Thou knowest too well that he cannot escape,
Yet, delighted art thou to watch how his strength
Fails him—that silly aspirant,
Who until his last minute hopes to conquer,
When thou, in advance hast his ruin determined.
And thou art not ashamed to demand immolations
And wouldst have him praise thy power and greatness
And sing to thee encomiums at every blood-drop,
Which drips from his heart under thy pressure.
And flattered art thou, omnipotent creator,
Who with one huff may annihilate worlds,
By the eulogies of that insignificant worm.
And demandest account for all his transgressions,
Which he only according to thy will committed.
And evenmost his short and lugubrious life,
With threats of eternal and flaming infernos
That multiply the horrors of his present existence
With frightful descriptions of a direful hereafter.
Invincible power, thou tyrant of worlds!
When will this man-toy tire thy senses?
When will thy fantasy contrive a new means
To kill thy boring and infinite time?
O, thou guardian of man? Why hast thou
Set me as an object to strike at so
That I am become a burden to mysself?”—Job.
Infinite might, thou tyrant of worlds!
The earth and the suns, the stars and the planets,
They are all nothing but toys for thee—
A means to kill time and only to shorten
The long and tedious procession of years,
Of which even thou cannot be freed.
And though recklessly strewn o'er vast spaces,
Whose distances none but thou couldst measure,
Yet are they helplessly bound like slaves
And chained to thy will, thy whims and thy fancies.
Secure and eternal are those mighty pillars,
Supporting thy solitary despotic throne.
No guards thou needest to watch o'er thy slaves;
Thy eye is their escort through billions of miles.
And every one of their movements thou hast
Already foreseen and in advance calculated.
And then, when satiety wearied thy eye
With suns and stars and systems of planets,
Whose charm of newness faded in time,
Destroyest thy structure with thunder and lightning;
Just as a child, playing with blocks,
Builds himself houses and suddenly destroys them.
Then in dark vacancy, alone thou sittest,
Ruminating o'er new plans, again to create
Out of thousands of worlds, a novel toy
To disport and satiate thy cruel God-fancy.
But all that sufficed not to amuse thee—almighty.
The enormous grandeur of systems which thou hast
Constructed in order to annul at thy pleasure;
Soon even that bored thee, and thou hast
Exerted thy boundless supreme acumen,
An infinitesimal creature—a man to create.
Thou playest with him now and smilest with joy,
While the poor moth down, suffers and struggles.
Fluttering and swirling, his powerless wings
Are entrapped in a spider-web of pangs and torture,
Into which thou hast his soul entangled.
Thou knowest too well that he cannot escape,
Yet, delighted art thou to watch how his strength
Fails him—that silly aspirant,
Who until his last minute hopes to conquer,
When thou, in advance hast his ruin determined.
And thou art not ashamed to demand immolations
And wouldst have him praise thy power and greatness
And sing to thee encomiums at every blood-drop,
Which drips from his heart under thy pressure.
And flattered art thou, omnipotent creator,
Who with one huff may annihilate worlds,
By the eulogies of that insignificant worm.
And demandest account for all his transgressions,
Which he only according to thy will committed.
And evenmost his short and lugubrious life,
With threats of eternal and flaming infernos
That multiply the horrors of his present existence
With frightful descriptions of a direful hereafter.
Invincible power, thou tyrant of worlds!
When will this man-toy tire thy senses?
When will thy fantasy contrive a new means
To kill thy boring and infinite time?
Translation:
Language:
Reviews
No reviews yet.