The Soul Of A Century/Akte

by Josef Svatopluk Machar

AKTE

 

All is quiet now . . They left . . and here he lies
In his own blood that cooled and set in clogs,
The blood that ran, and blends as into one
With the purplish rags outstretched beneath his head.
How still he lies, appearing as if dreaming,
A bluish light still glistens beneath the lashes
As of one who partly sheathes his eyes while thinking
Of some verse or rhyme he plans to write.
My Lord . . . or may I just say “Nero.”
Or “Lover”, I your Akte from Attalea?

But yesterday, no, yet this very morning
I stole about your palace like a shadow
But to behold the smile upon your features . . .
And now your head is reclining in my lap,
And no one here to question my possession.
And you alone, you cannot free yourself . . .
Alone I have you, as I have always wanted
Alone with you, with not a soul around
No one but I, your Akte . . . . You are not breathing?
Well, what of that? You are mine, I need not share
You now with others . . . you will never leave me
No-one will dare to rob me of you, my treasure . . . .

When first you passed me by, I know for certain
It was Destiny that ordered you to look
And questioningly gaze into my eyes.
Perhaps you dimly felt that someday I will be more
To you than all the people of your land.
More than your own breath, yes more than life itself.
All fled from you and I alone remained.
They spoke so ill of you and sought to judge
And torture you according to their customs . . . .
I failed to grasp it . . . Your look, so sweet and tender,
Your voice, whose softness sank to my soul’s depths,
Your wondrous locks, now equalled but by Phoebus’.
Why did they curse and drive you to the by-paths
That lead to Hades’ depths? . . . . They did not know,
And I who knew, I merely gazed at you with that same look
With which a flower gazes towards her sun,
And does not seem to care that this very sun
For other flowers shines, by others is beloved.
Yes, it was I, who could have found their errors
For I knew best, they did not understand.
But none would stop to hear a slave’s complaining
And why should they? . . . Your early burning kisses
Fell fresh upon my unaccustomed lips
While your heart-beats blend with my own frightened beating,
Both hearts astir with love’s first flaming passion.
And now, by God’s own graces I am favored
To offer you my love’s most painful rite,
To close your eyes . . . . A splendid cloak I know of
The one you wore each festive New Year’s Day,
Your cloak of white with the gold embroidered flowers.
In this, dead Phoebe, I will softly place you
Upon a pyre of sweetly scented woods, your ashes
I will lay at rest, in honor

Within your family tomb . . . What? Will they let me?
You are dead, and hatred only follows
To the gates that lead to Hades. My beloved
You would be moved to wonder now, to hear that one
Should dare to question the right to bury you,
You! . . Emperor! . . . The Lord of men! . . . Their ruler.
Yes, that will be your final service Akte,
The final means of serving your former master,
The final homage, offered by a flower
To her lifeless sun, and after that
Poor Akte? . . . Is there for you an “After?”