‘Day-dream of a son of Europe’
Apathetic and hungry, no better than cattle
blindly pragmatic he works, plows and reaps
Between first mortgage and small friendly prattle,
in front of flat screen, he feels like a king.
Cocktail party was splendid- he laughs, as he tattles,
the debts are half-paid, and new sofa- cheap
yet memories of old tales whisper and brattle
right into both ears, when he sleeplessly dreams
He grabs them, and shakes them, like a child shakes a rattle
When they fall, he follows, down on his knees
in pursuit of pictures of legends and battles,
long- gone, forsaken, well- weathered and dim.
And so he gathers the pieces, so small and so scattered
to build monument of this forgotten realm
each piece have a name of men perished in battle
for his and his world’s long-gone elegy.
If he only knew how to revive recollection,
of men in raw armours, armed with short swords
Steel weapons sparkle brighter than modern convention
though are dire as mountains, hard as cold stones.
They smell of ink, of snow-white lined paper- dimension
of textbooks and dust, within school’s narrow walls;
no more than fairy-tales, with no sense or relation
to his choices, his deeds, his thoughts and his words.
Yet the name of Vercingetorix plucks strings in his heart
to play still unnamed but well-known sweet notes
He remembers the stories of the free Gaulish tribes
under the eagle made to leave their homes.
Vercingetorix, unyielding and strong
proudly said ‘no’ – to Caesar’s genocidal needs
What European man still doesn’t know
is that present day Europe too needs glorious deeds.
Secondly, Decebalus, strong as ten men or more,
ambuscade master, intrepid of defeat
committed his effort and soul to fight war after war,
too proud to remain Rome’s slave client king.
Decebalus, so unselfish and brave,
will live forever carved in Orşova’s cold stone
European man still does not understand
that great spirits, as heroic names, will never be gone.
Thirdly, noble Son of Lion, descendant of Gods
- Leonidas , with a handful of men,
far too proud to subdue, and far too brave to bow down,
chose death over selling his blood and his land.
Leonidas didn’t die for Europe’s sons
to be turned into dogs retrieving Israeli balls
Three hundred pure, brave men didn’t lose their lives
for their descendants to fight for Israel's goals.
Last and most glorious, Arminius, raised a hostage of Rome;
Germanic eternal spirit singing in his heart
when he left marble courts for green forests back home
to unite the tribes, and deliver his land.
Arminius left domes of marble and gold,
shed shackles of strange titles for the bonds of his blood
Noble spirits as his – cannot be bought;
warriors must always be noble, regardless the times.
My dear son of Europe, please find a connection
between dry facts, remote as a mountain, and cold as a stone
Please breathe life into your sad recollection
of brave men whose deeds live outside your old text-books’ words.
Warriors fought not on history lessons,
but lived lives as real and precious as yours
Their sacrifice was not written in ink on white paper
but with blood, shed for the ones they loved.
Great heroes fought, for you, and died for your tribe
so don’t send your kind to fight foreign wars.
Respect the memory of those who rescued your land,
reject the laziness, shout ‘no’ to the sloth.
Cherish the mind, respect your heart, nourish the soul;
for heroic light still lives in your blood,
in your limbs, in your spirit, in your eyes, and your thoughts…
Stand steadfast, Stand proud, Start striving
Son of Europe