Murder On The Agenda

I know there is blood on my hands. I further know my hands will be stained with much further blood. But to stand amidst the crowd and throw bouquets on tyrants was not my intention of coming here. They will die someday. So will I. And therefore, the restlessness of the night of unceasing rains instills its wildness into each of my days and each of my nights. My life, clearly, is contingent on their death. I shall no doubt die of the shame of continuing to live unless they die quickly. Unless they die quickly, how shall I explain to the moon the reason why my laughter has become a grimace ? How shall I explain to that faraway woman the reason why I turned into a stone? If they kill me, they will surely manufacture a legend to prove to people that my death had become so necessary that, as soon as I fell, voices in the sky spoke, loudly and clearly, their thanksgiving for the assasins. Whether people believe them or do not is for them an irrelevant matter. They have never cared to understand why citizens of this country pray everyday that this life of theirs should be the very last on this planet. If, on the contrary, I kill them it will be unnecessary to think up a story. Even their own widows, in the course of their lament, will never, never incite their children to avenge the murder of their fathers. And as soon as they die, I too shall go away. But where? I have absolutely no idea. Maybe that woman's face would lead me on like a star to some place where the sword I had carried to kill myself would at once begin preparing itself for someone else's murder. [Translated by the poet]