SEPTEMBER

by Geo Milev

1

From the dead womb of night

The age-old spite of the slave is born:

His passionate hate

Is great.

Where veils of mist are drawn.

From valleys in darkness

Before the dawn,

From all hills round,

From barren scrub,

From hungry ground,

From homes of mud,

From village,

Town,

Secluded courtyard,

Cot and cottage,

Siding, store,

Barn,

Farm,

Flourmill,

Loom,

Lathe:

By road and lane,

Past high

Scree, ravine, and boulder,

By ridge

And shoulder,

Through humming coppice

And autumn yellow-leaf forest,

Through stones

And water,

Swollen stream,

Meadow,

Orchard,

Vineyard,

Field,

Sheepfold,

Brambles,

Stubble burnt black,

Thorns

And sodden marshland track:

Ragged,

Muddy,

Hungry,

Haggard,

Toughened by toil untold,

Roughened by heat and cold,

Blunted,

Stunted,

Covered in grime,

         Long-haired,

         Feet bared,

Scarred,

Untutored,

Untamed,

Angry,

To madness

inflamed

         —Bearing no roses,

         No songs,

         No music, no gongs,

         No clarinet, sidedrum and drone,

         No trumpet and horn, no trombone:

Shouldering bundles in tatters,

Gripping—not glittering sabres,

But common sticks,

Peasants with stakes,

Cudgels,

Goads,

Axes,

Choppers,

Pitchforks,

Hoes,

Scythes

And sunflowers

—Young and old—

Down from every direction behold

They came

—A blind herd

Of beasts let loose,

Numberless

Thundering bulls—

Calling,

Bawling

(Behind them a stoneblack sky)

Without order

Forward

They flew

         Irrepressible,

         Terrible,

         Great:

         THE PEOPLE!

2

Night dispersed as the hills

Glistened.

The sunf1owers

Turned to the Sun!

Slumbering dawn

Awoke

To the clatter of guns:

From the distant

Slopes

In leaden line

Mad

Bullets

Flew

With deadly whine.

The elephant jaws

Of cannon

Roared . . .

Fear it you must.

The sunflower stumbled in dust.

3

“The people’s voice

                        Is the voice of God.”

The people,

Pricked

By a thousand knives,

Dulled,

Degraded,

Poorer than beggars,

Deprived

Of brain

And nerve,

Arose

From the darkness and fear

Of their lives

—And wrote with their blood

             FREEDOM!

Chapter One:

         September.

—The people’s voice—

—The voice of God—

O God!

Grant strength to the sacred task

Of hands grown hard and dark from toil:

Infuse great courage in hearts, we ask,

In such turmoil:

For Thou wouldst wish no man a slave

And now — we vow by our own grave

That it is we shall resurrect

Man free on Earth

—So with a will

We face our death.

For beyond:

The Land of Canaan blooms,

The Land of Truth

Promised

To us—

Spring everlasting of living dreams . . .

We believe it! We know it! We wish it!

God be with us!

4

September! September!

O month of blood!

Of rising

And rout!

Muglizh was the first,

Chirpán,

Lorn,

Ferdinand,

Berkóvitsa,

Sarámbey,

Médkovets

         (With Andrei the Priest)

—Villages, towns

From West to East.

5

The people arose

—Hand

On hammer,

Covered in soot, sparks and ashes

—Hand on sickle,

Numbed by the cold and humid soil,

Sons and daughters of toil,

Silently bearing it—

                    (Not geniuses.

                    Bright boys,

                    Zealots,

                    Debaters,

                    Demagogues,

                    Businessmen,

                    Aviators,

                    Pedants,

                    Authors,

                    Generals,

                    Proprietors

                    Of cafes and bars,

                    Bandsmen

                    And men of the Black Guards)

         But

Peasants,

Workers,

Commonfolk,

Landless,

Illiterate,

Boors,

Hooligans,

Boars

—A rabble like cattle:

                              Thousands,

                                    Masses,

                                          The people:

Thousands of faiths

—One faith in the people’s cause,

Thousands of wills

—One will to obtain better laws,

Thousands of turbulent hearts

—In each heart a raging fire,

Thousands of toil-blackened hands

—In the reddening range of expanse

Eagerly raising on high

Red

Banners

Which spread

                        Far

                        And wide

Over a land in the grip o! alarm and revolt,

Ferocious fruit of the storm:

                        Thousands—

                        Masses—

                        The people.

6

Over the homely hills,

Their navels turned

To the sky

And eternal Sun,

                        Lightning

                        Flashed

                        —Thunder

Smote

Straight to the heart

The giant

Hundred-year

Oak.

Hill upon hill

Reflected the echo

Afar

Over peak and crest

To steep valleys,

In stone crannies

Where adders asleep

In coils rest

On hot couches,

To serpents’ caves

And dragon lairs

And witches’ hollow-tree haunts

                        —The echoes mixed

                        With the distant echo:

                        Echoes and rumble

                        Of waterfalls,

                        Torrents,

                        Gushing rivers,

                        Rushing,

                        Tumbling,

Thundering madly

                        To the abyss.

7

The tragedy begins!—

8

Those at the head

Fell in blood.

A barrage of lead

Met the rebel flood.

The flags fluttered

In shreds.

The mountain boomed . . .

There on high

The near and distant horizon

Darkened with lines

Of men

—In black rows

Growing:

The paid, trained soldiers

And snarling police—

Each one of them knowing:

“The Fatherland

Summons its sons!”

                        Exquisite:

                        But—what land is it?—

The ferocious bark

Of the guns . . .

Those at the head

Fell in blood.

Beyond the faraway

Hills

Artillery pealed.

Towns

And villages

Reeled.

Slopes,

Hollows,

Roads

Were strewn

With blood-soaked corpses.

Guards drew swords

And rode in pursuit

Of routed peasants

—Finished them, shot them

With shrapnel and mortar,

Fleeing in terror in every direction,

Hounded into their homes

And there, where the eaves hang low,

Felled to the ground at a blow

From blood-wet knives

To the shrieks

Of horrified mothers,

Children and wives . . .

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

9

The army advanced.

Under the menacing clatter of shrapnel

Even the boldest

Flinched:

In despair

Bare hands were raised in the air.

Fear without glory

Froze on each face—

Eyes beyond suffering.

                        “Every man

                        Fend for himself!”

Now by all routes

Regiment follows on regiment

                        —Infantry,

Cavalry,

Cannon.

Drums

Beat the attack.

Panic

Soars higher

Over the torn

Red banners,

Wielding its whiplash of fire.

There

As dismay increased

Alone

Andrei

The Priest

To epic boldness

Inspired

Fired

Round after round

From the famous cannon—

At last:

With the shout of

“Death to Satan,”

In fury magnificent

Turned about

His cannon:

Dispatched

The final shot

Straight

         —at the House of God,

Where many a psalm he had rendered . . .

And then he surrendered,

“Hang the Red Priest on the spot!

“No cross! No grave! Let him rot!”

He was dragged to a telegraph pole.

Close by stood the hangman

And captain.

The rope

On the ground.

Under the bitter

Chill sky

The Balkans

Frowned.

The priest stood full height,

Massive figure of man,

All

Calm as granite—

No regret,

No remembrances—

Christ’s cross on his chest

And eyes fixed on the crest

Of the distant hills,

On the future . . .

“Butchers!

“You lower your cowardly eyes

“In the hour a man dies!

“But—one death—

“What does it mean?

“Amen!”

Tight-lipped

He spat.

Then rapidly slipped

Himself

The noose on his neck

And

Not glancing heavenward

—Hung—

With teeth gripping

Tongue:

Majestic.

Magnificent,

Matchless!

10

Autumn

Flew by

In wild havoc

Of wailing and gales and deep night.

The storm clouds seethed

On darkening hills

—Gloom and glitter

And crows’ croaking flight—

The Earth’s back

Sweated blood.

Every hovel and home

Shuddered in cowering fear.

Death rode here!

Loud as thunder

The din

Split the heavens asunder.

11

Then came

The worst horror.

Smitten in fury

The alarum bell struck at their hearts

—Struck, smote, rang . . .

Darkness dropped to the ground,

Cast a dense, dread blockade

All round.

Death

—The bloodthirsty witch

Lurking in eddies of mist—

Shrieked

As she reached

Out through the night:

With endlessly long withered arms

Seizing, squeezing

Terrified hearts

At the back of each wall.

O night of nameless deeds!

—Both secret, and seen:

Again village greens carry scarlet stains.

Death screams in a severed throat are caught.

Again cruel clashing of shackle and chains

And the prison cells crowded.

In echoing courts

Of barracks and jails

Volleys ring to command.

Doors are locked,

Strangers knock.

In the porch with a gun

Sprawls a dying son.

Father hung.

Sister raped.

Uprooted from villages

Peasants are followed by troops

In grim convoy,

To be shot:

The order: “Halt!”

“Prepare to fire!”

             The bolts clatter:

                                Ku

                                    Klux

                                          Klan—

“Fire !”

             —Bullets spatter.

Ten bodies

Heavily

Plunge from the bank

Into the turbid grey River Maritsa,

Whose crimson flow

Carries away

Her sons in sorrow.

In distant deserted streets

Drums thud

As a band repeats:

“Maritsa murmurs . . .”

River of blood.

In the trampled

Thistle-grown fields

Where the grasses run wild

Roll scarlet heads

Defaced by knives.

Gallows outspread black arms

(Ghosts in a mist of death).

Ceaseless the merciless march of the axe

Against bone.

Villages blaze

Beyond the horizon.

Blood runs in torrents.

The death pyres’ hot flame

Sacrilegiously licks

The foot

Of God’s

Throne.

Live flesh roasts.

In high horror

The heavenly hosts

Exclaim

—A savage hosanna to God—

The end.

The hurricane ceased,

The storm

Stopped at last:

Over the land

Came

Peace

And silence.

The gods completed

Their bloody repast.

12

O Muse, now sing the Wrath of Achilles . . .

Achilles the strong brute,

The demon of war.

For long years the general

Of H. M. King Agamemnon.

Achilles the hero

With row upon row

Of crosses and medals and ribbons . . .

A pillar

Of order and peace

In the land . . .

But today

We no longer believe in heroes

—Not theirs, nor our own.

Troy burned, the city was razed.

Priam and Hecuba perished . . .

Achilles triumphs . . .

“What’s Hecuba to him?”

His brute savage heart

Does not hear

The wailing of mothers distraught

Over nameless graves sprinkled with blood,

So many

They cannot be numbered.

“What’s Hecuba to him?”

Achilles the hero.

Achilles was great.

God-sent scourge of God.

But Achilles shall perish in wrath and cursing.

—He perished,

                        his fall was a fall of shame:

The killer was truly repaid.

Agamemnon killed Iphigenia

                        —And perished:

Clytaemnestra killed Agamemnon

                        —And perished:

Orestes-Elektra killed Clytaemnestra

                        —They perished . . .

Alone there remains

Cassandra the seer,

Who stands and shall stay

Through the ages:

Speaking of vengeance

—And all shall come true.

Constant amusement, pastime, caprice

Of the gods.

Perpetual bloom of gods’ fury,

To whom all death is a jest,

All mourning revelry.

Death, murder and blood—

For how long must it be?

All-powerful Zeus,

                        Jupiter,

                        Ahuramazda,

                        Indra,

                        Tot,

                        Ra,

                        Jehovah,

                        Sabaoth:

—Reply!

From the smoke of the fires

Rise

Assailing the ears

The cries of the killed,

The roars

Of the numberless martyrs

On blazing wood pyres

—Who

Has betrayed our faith?

Reply!

You say nothing?

Don’t know?

—We do!

Look:

With one bound

We leap into Heaven:

         DOWN WITH GOD!

—Heave a bomb at your heart

And take Heaven by storm:

         DOWN WITH GOD!

From your throne

Send your dead

Down to the starless

Ironclad depths

Of the world’s great abyss—

         DOWN WITH GOD!

From the boundlessly high

Bridge of the sky

With levers and ropes

We’ll bring down Heaven,

The land of our hopes,

Down

To the sorrowing

Blood-soaked

Earth.

All that the poets and philosophers wrote

Shall come true!

—No god! No master!

The month of September shall turn into May:

The life that men lead

From that day shall proceed

Ever upward, upward:

Earth shall be Heaven—

It shall!

Translated from the Bulgarian

by Peter Tempest, 1921