My wretched day of birthing

My wretched date of birthing is to be effaced,
Like other worthless weekdays filled with empty folly;
The crowd expects a feast, a pleasure in a haste,
To wallow in libation, giddy, drunk, and jolly.

Waste not your solemn words, nor crouch on bended 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 – it ripened every day;
I watched the earthly vermin, free of any passion,
Whilst wearing the rags, stayed out of the fray,
And gave the insincere gifts a scornful lashing.

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

Try picturing my spleen as I flee 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, lavish food,
Don’t serve the linden tea on a gold-plated server;
I’ll knock your tributes with a blow of my boot,
Imparting all my hatred, rage, despair, and fervour.

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

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