Recitative (Two invocations and an act of accusation)
Choral (Legend of the unhappy king)
Men with no flaw, demigods
who live in silvered castles,
you who reach up to the apogees of glory,
we, who are begging for mercy, are the drug addicts.
Crossing the border of inhumanity,
prematurely, we knew the carrion
that puts an end to each happy dream:
may mercy be not a shame for you.
There was once a king
who had
two castles,
one of silver
one of gold
but for himself
not even the heart
of a friend
never any love nor happiness.
Bankers, shopkeepers, notaries,
with obese bellies and sweaty hands,
with moneybox-shaped hearts,
we, who are begging for mercy, are misled women.
We sailed on fragile vessels
to face the world's storms
and our eyes were too beautiful:
may mercy not remain in your pocket.
Chosen judges, lawmen,
we who are still dancing in your dreams
are the dejected human herd
of those who died with a knot at their throat.
How many innocents did you destine
to the dreadful agony, deciding their fate,
and how fair do you think is
a judgment that decrees death?
He gave
one castle
and found
hundreds of friends
and the other
brought him
a thousand loves
but he couldn’t find
happiness.
Men with whom mercy doesn’t always agree,
badly accepting the common destiny
you go, on November evenings,
and spy, in the dim starlight,
the death and the wind amid the cemeteries
moving the tombs and putting them close
as if they were huge pieces
of a domino that will never end.
Men, in order that at the last minute
the belated remorse for never having
had mercy may not assault you,
and that your breath may not become a rattle,
know that death is watching you
while you’re rejoicing in the fields or among lime walls,
as well as the peasant watches the growing wheat
until it isn't mature for the scythe.
Don’t look for happiness
among all those
whom you’ve given
to get a reward
but only in yourself
inside your heart
if you’ll have given
only for mercy
for mercy.