My wretched day of birth

My wretched date of birth must go by the board,
Like other worthless weekdays filled with empty folly;
The crowds expect a feast, a jollity, a bourd,
To drown in inmost death in storms severe and squally.

Don’t waste the words, don’t blab, don’t beg, don’t bend the knee:
It makes my soul freeze – no point in trying hardest;
What dowagers might prize is otiose to me,
Your gifts are welcome less than snowfall in harvest.

Yet... Ancient is my soul – maturing it all day,
I watched the earthly vermin free of any passion,
Whilst wearing the rags, stayed out of the fray,
And gave the hollow gifts an acerbated bashing.

The world is worried sick when flowers are in sight:
Unjoyful strangled stems from the discount section,
Insipid greeting cards with pictures dull and trite –
A constable should give me anti-gift protection!

Try picturing my spleen from fleeing vapid prate,
To hide forever in a god-forsaken closet –
If you don’t see the seal of mourning on my gate,
A scourging of your naked backs would seem apposite.

Enough of stuffing me with sumptuous welcome food,
Stop pouring linden tea in porcelain on a server;
I’ll knock your tributes with a blow of my boot,
Expending into it my hatred, rage, and fervour.

I’ll humbly leave your camp, dissolving into mist,
And arch my back with gloom, and disappear tomorrow;
Without me, sit down at any public feast
And drink your rotgut for remembrance and for sorrow.

2010-06-28, translated 2020-04-12.