That Beauty, Liberty!
Written by Victor Hugo 3 July 1823 Translated by Joseph Markenstein 5-7 March, 2013 Other Original Poems written by Joseph Markenstein
When the impious have grudged their outrage in the sanctuary, All shall be erogenous in the temple by dichotomy of splendor, However the ever faithful priest, in genuflexion over the estuary, Prodigious amounts of incents, resounding with loving February, Curbs low the base of his head to Don his sack-cloth pompadore.
No, upon our tables of tryst, oh beauty resist! On august of kings, daughters are renewed, Liberty! Pure flower of the cloud of fist, No, I love you not, point said : twenty three scadooo! Cause my guitar, it gently weeps Crying while never making a peep, Blessed with all Cardinal Virtue. In an age where the heart stifles a sniffle of magnanimity, Where mankind to their future throw a challenge superlatively And harness for his menace an “Orange” (.nl) in a sling of play Before the hour where perishes the flower child of hope, When the soul, to suffrage is roped, Passes from fresh morn to arid mid-day; I have said : “O Salute, Virgo Amabile et Severo!” The world, Oh Liberty, suite of Noblemen so bright; Like a blushing bride he love’s you, and you he knows As a Grandmother with her hair all white! “Felicitations! You know, your soul effaces the grave, Descends into the gallies of slaves Anon further on the palladiums of tyrant kites; (the Bird) In contrast of Cédron cannoned them from Permese
Your gentle voice has all day some illustrious promise You, who tend to those heroes who are dying. So I have said. Smiling at my drunken berth, I shall take myself to the sages of the earth : “Behold that Beauty Liberty! Bourn of blood and bourn of tears! The populace revels raveling to her girdle Goes, Oh to his young Love’s reward! For behold the Immortal!” And “Iran” (I ran), flabbergasting the palms and floundering the flowers.
O God! Our Liberty, was a monster Gargantua, Nominating what’s True only for it’s phallus, Albeooteral the crys of blind dementia And the Avenue of Vicious genious! The fable have n’ue given to masters so impious? The fingernail castigating so serious And those thousand arms of Aragon. Charms blazoned by Romans ornate onerous idle; The infernal pulpit of the Pantheon. The haggard hair-shirt, the obtuse obstacle, He fleas into death like some sweet popsicle. The fouler who’s knots knot all peoples he sickles; And these sagacious mentors musing in pompous doctrines They say support is too heavy, when among ruins, They stagger, drunk on blood! Mingling the laws of Sparta with the feasts of Sodom, In all sins searching all it’s applicable tax, By the void in the soul he believes man’s hippodrôme, And lends revelry to the arcane cracks. For frapping their dairy crown daring frap their heads, By kings, perishing in blood red, He brazens the thrône debased, And for an entire eternity leaving her revel, Deigned by God, silent in her exile celestial, Offering an exchange of obligations refaced.
And the sagacious have said : “Glory to our ‘Golden Fleece!’ This dead day of Rome and this tempestuous tempest of Greece! Nations, of our brazened king emblazon the indignant scruple. Beauty Liberty! You have no more Mate for your self even : Cause we want you to be our ‘even Steven,’ May we the People be happy and free, Oh sovereign people!” Tyrants adulation! Caresses Menace! For shame! Asia, Africa, where is your estuary? Where their scepters are soft, and their chains have fondness, Close pressed this behest inflammatory! Render Gender, oh fowl adjective, dejected in fetters of iron, Oh vile vial of Ethiopia’s Siren, By a fetter of jealousy mutilated! Glory in bawdy, a cashé in an harem of Prophets! Glory to the slave who’s obscure, who steers steer in their sets, For want of being in silence, immolated! The sultry Sultan, behind walls of jasper and feldspar Throw to an hundred beauties a smile aloof and far, Foul purple and gold, amber and coral, By far, in passing, the people aught know Where are the pleasures of their beau, An head who hangs in doors decked floral. People so satisfied! Spawning the revolt fiduciary, Among troubled trestles, in cobbled alley, well finned The quiescent centenary misplaced an incendiary Over the island Breuer with wind. People so satisfied! Of vim’s vigor being the blocks; A poison, where death itself walks, Flirting over her river dissected sea; Slavery the curb of the yoke of fright. People thrice terse see scarce! Divine sages sight Sprite®™, He doesn’t have your Liberty!
Oh France! Liberty is in heaven, while we be in days with choler Has flouted Freedom, nymph of St. Dymphna supplicated; I must, for reflection of this astral projection protecting, Meaning, pure in all tides, the river popular As has flow, the shadow of the thrône prognosticated A god of Yankee yoke who’s issued the decree. Among the oppressed, he came to take his place; Kings! In fraternal friendship his word has fecundity; People! He was poor, humble and effaced. Has all the denouement sublime, Savior over steps secure; In his eyes, the hawk is sister to the hernsaw And the self same laurel, in the same hind-sight saw, In one part wormwood, two parts liquor.
When the impious have grudged their outrage in the sanctuary, All shall be erogenous in the temple by dichotomy of splendor However the ever faithful priest, in genuflexion over the estuary, Prodigious amounts of incents, resound with Loving February, Curbs low the base of his head to Don his sack-cloth pompadore.
Mic Mark McCreddin
Mic Mark McCreddin kicked an Irish Micky down to it’s can, It can keep a coin in this pocket of his if the buzz doesn’t make him snooze. Cause booze can make Mic Mark McCreddin sedentary and never move. Now Mark will never take lark when it comes to making a buck, It’s his Luck to be lucky and give the young women a fu*k. This Mic making out here like Bull Durum (Dharam) serum at the end of the cask, I hoist my flask to Mic Mark McCreddin the Luckiest IrishMan of the Year!!!
Written on February 17, 2013 one month before St Patrick’s Day!!!