To Wilson
by Ivan Vazov
Ce siècle est à la barre, et je suis son témoin. — V. Hugo
A second Christ beyond the ocean wide,
A blessèd new Evangel you proclaimed;
The weary, blood-soaked earth in comfort sighed
As peace was by your word at last regained.
And so the world did herald in the dawn
Of love; and so the century arrived
When, enmity and bitter strife withdrawn,
Man shall as brother live with man and thrive.
We too, for worthy cause who died and bled,
We said, ‘His righteous voice can mean no harm.
The day of justice dawns!’ — and thus we led
Our friends in setting down victorious arms.
We hoped for justice — cruelty replied.
For love we yearned — but were repaid with gall
Most unrelenting, such as boils inside
The cavernous expanse of deepest hell.
Too late we saw: no honour to the weak
Is shown, and sword-less hands are fit for fetters;
Too late we understood the lies they speak,
Our solemn contract rendered a dead letter!
Where are you, gentle Wilson? Do you see?
Night overcame the noble flame you wrought.
Into the deserts was exiled your plea
And fervent calls for peace all came to naught.
Christ’s very words resounded in your own,
Like His, they were rejected with disdain…
The world, they said, could not yet condone
Nor readily those promises attain.
Iniquity and Malice celebrate
Their triumph, Lies in laureled crowns array!
Rejoiceth Evil; we must yet await
God’s coming Kingdom, still so far away.
I see once more a sea of bitter pains
And tears and cries engulf my native land,
Abandoned nest-hearths, and the mute remains
Of brethren, fallen by a stranger’s hand.
And what of shame? Of sin? Of moral sense?
The iron fist of conquest needs them not!
And this most cruel peace? A vile offence
Against One crucified for what He taught!
Without an equal was this dreadful war
In history’s page; and yet its bloody stain
Is not as hideous a blot before
The ink-black shameful bonds of our new chains.
16 October 1919
First published in 1919
Translated from the original Bulgarian.
© 2020 K. Velichkov
