Y by Zdzisław Beksiński
A SCOP'S UNWORTHINESS
This scop was not made for months like these,
was never meant to wear a ring,
twisted with honor and ancient ties,
from his giver of gold, or any glory gain
in the beating of blades. Breaking the silence
of hardened warriors in an esteemed hall
is better done by those who bring
no shamefulness to the title ‘scop’
and the noble work of smithing words.
These are no troubles for truer men
with might, bravery, and keener minds.
I feared myself a fault of Fate,
or one whose luck is ever lost.
But now the cause of troubles cruel
stands before me, mocking my state:
I chose to act this childishly.
I fouled these hands that cannot fight,
tainted this tongue that always tattles,
wasted my age in idleness,
forever chasing a foolish dream,
a useless man, better unmade.
Were I to mold this meager muscle,
fashion this vessel a newer form,
worthier and wiser, I would thus wish:
this nithing’s heart crumble to naught,
this tattling tongue to turn to dust,
these worthless eyes to wither and die,
this weaker flesh to slough away,
this feeble mind to finally melt,
this bone-house all to be built anew.
What fault of mine makes me unfit
to see the glories of greater men?
Where went my chance to walk among
more famous men of wit and might?
What far time shall my luck return,
bringing to me a better day?
What time shall hope, that tattered thing,
come back to me with better news?
