San Gennaro
(patron saint of Naples)
whose skull clutched
in a bishop’s shaky hands
stops Vesuvius’s lava flows
in their tracks
finds himself utilised
for political purposes.
His blood
bottled in a phial
miraculously liquefies
hopefully each year
on his feast day.
If not...
dreadful events will
...ensue.
Naples is busy
falling to the French
& the Grande Armée
is fearful of the clergy
fiddling the blood.
A failed liquefaction
might trigger a revolt
so to ensure
a happy result
the French commander
(taking no chances)
holds a cocked
pistol
to the sweating
priest’s head
until
it
does
forcing the blood
to be
obedient to
its new masters.
Somewhere Napoleon
laughs.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem