One of these days he walked about in his chamber, irresolute,
While his environment did not agree with his mood anymore,
And he thought about the history of creation, which is manifested
In his talent, transmitted over many generations or was it only
His fate to be educated in perversion?
And so he thought about
His duties and wondered whether a man should kill,
Or should not kill, whether he should kill,
Or should not kill, whether he should kill…
So he put his coat ‘round his shoulders, locked the door and got
Into the cab that took him to the same place as every day, where
He executed as if in a factory.
How distant the days of monarchy,
When he performed the art of torture, when he introduced
himself to his prisoners,
Representing the power of an old tradition,
Making everyone tremble at a look from his eyes. But now they
Laugh at him and stick out their tongues.
And the crowd cries «hurry up»
And he does his job, and the crowd cries «hurry up»,
And he does his job, and the crowd cries «hurry up»…
Once on a holiday he stayed at home, spent his time playing
The flute. During the Sarabande someone knocked on his door,
«Citizen Delacroix,
We accuse you of high treason,
You are said to be a royalist.
What can you say in your defense?»
And he followed them to the cab that took him
To the same place as everyday,
Held on the railing as he went up the stairway, and he did
Not feel like asking for mercy.
And the crowd cried, «hurry up»,
As he went down on his knees,
And the crowd cried, «hurry up»,
As he went down on his knees,
And the crowd cried, «hurry up»…