marius fiil

Før henrettelsens digte

I just foregående postering havde vi fat i poeten Thomas Bobergs bagvaskelse af Martin Kasler (den der gode tone, man høre og læser så meget om) og temmelig håbløse forsvar af løgnhalsen Jacob Holdts meritter. Der findes dog poeter, der kan udtrykke sig klart, selv i situationer, hvor det handler om det ultimative farvel.

Først danske Marius Fiil

Kære elskede Gudrun,
Bitten, Tulle, Gerda, Ritha og Otto og Stumpen!

Nu har Klokken slaget 11 og snart 12, og vi skal væk herfra, Vorherre kalder os hjem til sig, og vi får det godt alle hjemme hos ham, så godt, som et Menneske kan få det, vi er ved godt Mod allesammen, for vi ved jo, at vi går hjem til den evige Hvile i Herrens Arme.

Og når alle I kære derhjemme holder sammen om vores kære Hjem og arbejder for det, da mødes vi engang i Herrens Hus, hvor der er Fred og ingen Krig, og til den Tid må I stå sammen og holde sammen og arbejde for Hjem og Danmarks Sag, så den Slægt, som skal bære vort Slægtsnavn frem, kan sige:

“Vore Fædre faldt med Ære for Danmark og for vores Konge.”

Husk, der er mange, der faldt før os. Husk danske Sømænd ude i Verden. Danske herhjemme før os, og dem efter os, – alle har vi gjort, hvad vi kunde, om det kun var lidt, men vi skammer os ikke, vi siger som Blicher: “La vos aalti blyv ved de, Faar sit Baan ka kinnes ve.”

Og vi kan være vore Børn bekendt, kære Gudrun, og bliv ved med den samme Opdragelse, så vil de ære dit og mit minde, og det vil blive bevaret i Frem tiden.

Der vil komme sorgfulde Dage for dig, min Elskede, med Kamp og Arbejde, men du må bære det i Herrens Navn og stole på ham, han har hjulpet mig i, de sidste Dage, læg trygt din Tillid til ham, og han vil hjælpe jer alle, Herren Vil hjælpe jer, Herren vil bevare jer, Herren vil lyse Fred over jer alle og Herren vil alle Dage være med Eder alle, I kære derhjemme.

Jeres Far og din Mand, Marius.
“My Last Farewell”
translation by Encarnacion Alzona & Isidro Escare Abeto [fra spansk, originalen findes i linket]

Farewell, my adored Land, region of the sun caressed,
Pearl of the Orient Sea, our Eden lost,
With gladness I give you my life, sad and repressed;
And were it more brilliant, more fresh and at its best,
I would still give it to you for your welfare at most.

On the fields of battle, in the fury of fight,
Others give you their lives without pain or hesitancy,
The place does not matter: cypress, laurel, lily white;
Scaffold, open field, conflict or martyrdom’s site,
It is the same if asked by the home and country.

I die as I see tints on the sky b’gin to show
And at last announce the day, after a gloomy night;
If you need a hue to dye your matutinal glow,
Pour my blood and at the right moment spread it so,
And gild it with a reflection of your nascent light

My dreams, when scarcely a lad adolescent,
My dreams when already a youth, full of vigor to attain,
Were to see you, Gem of the Sea of the Orient,
Your dark eyes dry, smooth brow held to a high plane,
Without frown, without wrinkles and of shame without stain.

My life’s fancy, my ardent, passionate desire,
Hail! Cries out the soul to you, that will soon part from thee;
Hail! How sweet ’tis to fall that fullness you may acquire;
To die to give you life, ‘neath your skies to expire,
And in thy mystic land to sleep through eternity!

If over my tomb some day, you would see blow,
A simple humble flow’r amidst thick grasses,
Bring it up to your lips and kiss my soul so,
And under the cold tomb, I may feel on my brow,
Warmth of your breath, a whiff of thy tenderness.

Let the moon with soft, gentle light me descry,
Let the dawn send forth its fleeting, brilliant light,
In murmurs grave allow the wind to sigh,
And should a bird descend on my cross and alight,
Let the bird intone a song of peace o’er my site.

Let the burning sun the raindrops vaporize
And with my clamor behind return pure to the sky;
Let a friend shed tears over my early demise;
And on quiet afternoons when one prays for me on high,
Pray too, oh, my Motherland, that in God may rest I.

Pray thee for all the hapless who have died,
For all those who unequalled torments have undergone;
For our poor mothers who in bitterness have cried;
For orphans, widows and captives to tortures were shied,
And pray too that you may see your own redemption.

And when the dark night wraps the cemet’ry
And only the dead to vigil there are left alone,
Don’t disturb their repose, disturb not the mystery:
If thou hear the sounds of cithern or psaltery,
It is I, dear Country, who, a song t’you intone.

And when my grave by all is no more remembered,
With neither cross nor stone to mark its place,
Let it be plowed by man, with spade let it be scattered
And my ashes ere to nothingness are restored,
Let them turn to dust to cover thy earthly space.

Then it doesn’t matter that you should forget me:
Your atmosphere, your skies, your vales I’ll sweep;
Vibrant and clear note to your ears I shall be:
Aroma, light, hues, murmur, song, moanings deep,
Constantly repeating the essence of the faith I keep.

My idolized Country, for whom I most gravely pine,
Dear Philippines, to my last goodbye, oh, harken
There I leave all: my parents, loves of mine,
I’ll go where there are no slaves, tyrants or hangmen
Where faith does not kill and where God alone does reign.

Farewell, parents, brothers, beloved by me,
Friends of my childhood, in the home distressed;
Give thanks that now I rest from the wearisome day;
Farewell, sweet stranger, my friend, who brightened my way;
Farewell to all I love; to die is to rest.

Advertisements