La batalla del Dios enfermo
I
En días que los hombres
encontraban alegría en la guerra
Un dios de las batallas
aceleró cada frasco mortal
Los pueblos le empeñaron
corazón y mano
Desde la tierra e Israel
hasta tierras lejanas.
II
Su forma carmesí con sonido
metálico y repique
Brilló en cada reunión
oscura y asesina,
Y los reyes invocaron para
la violación y la incursión
Su terrible ayuda en runas
y rimas.
III
En contusión agujero de
sangre, cicatrices y costuras,
Sobre la hoja y el peron
arrojó su rayo fulgido:
Sus halos irradiaban la
misma sangre
Y los cadáveres lucieron su
resplandor glorioso.
IV
A menudo uno de los
primeros reyes y reinas
Y héroe histórico en
adelante , captó su brillo;
Fue vislumbrado por Wolfe,
por Ney anon,
Y Nelson en su heredad
azul.
V
Pero se extendió una nueva
luz. El nimbo de ese oro de ese Dios
Y el blasón se ha
desvanecido más y más oscuro;
Incluso su forma
desonrojada empieza a desvanecerse,
Hasta que solo quede una
sombra de él.
VI
Que la meditación moderna
rompió
Su hechizo, que la suplica
de los escritores dieron un golpe
Dicen algunos, y algunos
que cometen crímenes demasiado terribles
Hizo mucho para enlodar su
capa carmesí.
“The Sick Battle-God”.
Publicado en
Poems of the Past and Present, de 1901.
I
In days when men found joy in war,
A God of Battles sped each mortal jar;
The peoples pledged him heart and hand,
From Israel’s land to isles afar.
II
His crimson form, with clang and chime,
Flashed on each murk and murderous meeting-time,
And kings invoked, for rape and raid,
His fearsome aid in rune and rhyme.
III
On bruise and blood-hole, scar and seam,
On blade and bolt, he flung his fulgid beam:
His haloes rayed the very gore,
And corpses wore his glory-gleam.
IV
Often an early King or Queen,
And storied hero onward, caught his sheen;
’Twas glimpsed by Wolfe, by Ney anon,
And Nelson on his blue demesne.
V
But new light spread. That god’s gold nimb
And blazon have waned dimmer and more dim;
Even his flushed form begins to fade,
Till but a shade is left of him.
VI
That modern meditation broke
His spell, that penmen’s pleadings dealt a stroke,
Say some; and some that crimes too dire
Did much to mire his crimson cloak.
VII
Yea, seeds of crescent sympathy
Were sown by those more excellent than he,
Long known, though long contemned till then –
The gods of men in amity.
VIII
Souls have grown seers, and thought outbrings
The mournful many-sidedness of things
With foes as friends, enfeebling ires
And fury-fires by gaingivings!
IX
He rarely gladdens champions now;
They do and dare, but tensely – pale of brow;
And would they fain uplift the arm
Of that weak form they know not how.
X
Yet wars arise, though zest grows cold;
Wherefore, at times, as if in ancient mould
He looms, bepatched with paint and lath;
But never hath he seemed the old!
XI
Let men rejoice, let men deplore,
The lurid Deity of heretofore
Succumbs to one of saner nod;
The Battle-god is god no more.
