What’s it to us, my heart, but blankets of blood
and of coalfire, a thousand murders, endless
Howls of rage, and wails of hell-pits disclosing
All order, and North-wind playing still on the debris
But vengeance? Never! And yet we crave it.
Industrialists, princes, senators: die!
Power, justice, history: kneel! We’re due,
Due blood. Blood and golden flames.
All in for war, for vengeance, for terror
My soul! We writhe in its Bite: O! pass away
Republics of this world! Emperors,
Regiments, colonists, peoples, Enough already.
Who’ll rouse the fire’s whirlwind fury
If not us, and those we call our brothers?
It’s our turn! Giddy friends, our fun begins.
O floods of fire we’ll never work
Europe, Asia, America, Vanish. Our march
Of vengeance has occupied everything
Cities and the countryside! - We’ll be wiped out!
Volcanoes erupt! Oceans boil……
Oh my friends! - My heart, it’s sure, there are brothers.
Shadowed strangers. If we were to leave! So let’s go! Let’s go!
O misfortune! I’m trembling and this old earth on me.
And more and more on you - the world end,
It’s nothing! Still me! All that and I’m still me.
Written at the time of the liquidation of the Paris commune May 1871.