Don Quixote - Poem by Elias Foukis
Since the urge came over me
I would like to show a film.
I will take the part of the world
and have the world
play the part of me.
But until the world
learns to play the role of Don Quixote
I will have at my disposal sufficient time...
for practically a second human History
the involvement with Glory will surpass
the seriousness of the extension of empires.
And all that of course without the horses
without the exasperation
that the largest part of Glory
the World would come to appreciate on horseback.
The World has taken them
so they can play the role of Don Quixote together
and I see them in the enclosed mountains of La Mancha
the poor horses being beaten
who having the experience
of Don Quixote riding on their backs
provided a sufficient reason
for the naive souls of the Middle Ages to hope
that finally they had found the reason and the technique
of the Ancient Legends
for making their way to Troy.
I cannot fall quite so low
as to play the role of the World.
It`s just I`m in a rush with this opportunity I`ve been given
by this position far
from the preparations for the tempests of that period
whereby I might be a true Don Quixote
who levels a heavy charge
against the Spanish Monarchy
for its impersonal compact with all the World
influenced by Fantasy
immediately after the notification
of my own plans
for the creation of a second Human History.
But that one like all the others
proved to be a phantom
which the Spanish might have shared with the World
if only their souls
would have been weighted down by the Line
'those hopeless returns to La Mancha.'
But they have never returned
because no one is waiting for them
and the greatest scandal is that
no one ever had the hope
there might be somewhere to go
from Spain and the World.
And this seems so bitter and tragic to me
that my reason consumed by so many tasks
will now occupy itself
with the crude similarity between the Eras...
because they blame me for any chance ambiguity
in the philosophical essence of History
and that this has occurred because I
have made off with the authenticity of the Eras.
Well for your information
the exact opposite is what actually happened.
The Eras themselves were like lighted candles
at the terminus of murky imperial Fate
during that time when along with the last recollections
they were deprived of reason
and they waited on a wind to keep them in life.
Just as it should have, it happened
and the Winds came to abandon that world
but I who was a bit more than merely a World
never took care to be a Wind.
I merely found myself opposite them like a storm
threatening the Idols
of their egocentric feelings
which fled with the cynical dexterity of Abel
from the debased terrain of the Earth
the moment when Humankind
entered without even itself knowing it
the dogmatic Paintings of the White Saints.
I have never been face to face
with all those strange figures
which provoke such displeasure in me
but if I should come face to face
I have the despairing impression
that holding out the Cross to thwart an assault
by the supposedly Satanic Don Quixote
in order not to defy the sentiments of the World
that I so loved...
that they will then force me to decisively withdraw
which would always be the end of tragedy
in agreement with the naive World.
While I would say
despite the fact I am certain that
that no one will hear me
that this is the Beginning of Tragedy.
Later comes the colonisation of the Divine Dialectic
which will choke the sensibility of the Earth in corruption
for those people who continue to be mortal
and despite the fact I gave La Mancha the right
to govern things in the Abyss
in what concerns this despair
But this pitiless tragicalness
will not prevent this deluded world
from constantly praising the Saints.
And indeed I could say that
despite the fact this Quixotian madness
remains the only manifesto
concerning human insurrections
the fact that this manifesto has been discredited
makes me say that
it is the Era of Saints.
And now immersed in this full Mediterranean moon
where from all points something
is blowing which reminds me that although
I have fallen into the grip of deep age
reckoning on the writing of my memories
I feel like crying without even wanting myself
to surrender to Christian Charity
and I will not be able to be prodigal
in the use of Sarcasm
so I can let it be understood
that my work will be excoriated
especially when it is judged
by the naive people of Spain and the World.
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