Memento Mori.

      The Ballad of "La Danse Macabre."

(An interpretation into modern English from the Hungarian

translation by György Faludy of a Ballad purportedly

 written by the XV. Century French poet François Villon.)

There sat the Emperor. On his thick hair,

Like seven stars, his coronet shone;

Slaves on bent knees adored him… Lovely, fair

Maids on his bed, arms and legs spread, prone…

On his shoulder, like lantern stood the moon,

But under his throne cried his jester…

"What are you crying for - he yelled - you goon!

There's no heart my sword could not enter.

This world is mine!"… But as arrived the dusk

Death danced up to him, touching his heart,

- Just like autumn wind lifts a speck of dust -

Blew him away with thundering fart.

   - We were all despots… we deserve our lot…

Like seconds, minutes the years fly by…

Cry or smile, scream or laugh; it matters not;

The day arrives when you too will die.

The Surgeon cried at his gothic window:

"Lord where can I find the nectar which

Is balm to all pain? Oh, where does it grow

That cures every ache and every itch?"

The door opened. A lanky Magister

Danced across the room. Held in his hand

- Filled with thin wine - a dark lead canister.

"Drink this juice, it's cool, refreshing and

Covers all wounds, like corpses will the lime.

Drink Brother! Drink from this deep chalice;

The first sip only tastes like acrid slime…

But induces sleep without malice."

   - We were all bunglers… we deserve our lot…

Like seconds, minutes the years fly by…

Cry or smile, scream or laugh; it matters not;

The day arrives when you too will die.

The Child stood by the well-curb, looking at

His reflection in the water deep,

- Surrounded by shiny water ringlet -

Calling at him to dip-in his feet.

"If you jump, I'll give you sweets…loads and loads

And every flush-dawn, when you wake,

We shall gambol over the backs of toads;

This will be your own magical lake."

"I'm coming!" and the cool water moulded

Slime-green algae on his puffed belly,

Whilst the Grim Reaper - in his arms folded -

Carried home his water filled welly.

   - We played like dumb kids… we deserve our lot…

Like seconds, minutes the years fly by…

Cry or smile, scream or laugh; it matters not;

The day arrives when you too will die.

By her hazy, cracked mirror sat the Whore.

"My hair is shiny, it is still red,

My nipples are full, firm and hard at core,

My groins lust, when I am in bed.

How come nobody visits me at all?

I still wait for passionate embrace."

And like magic He entered through the wall.

"Hop, Sarah hop. Let us dance with grace;

Let your dead lovers in a dance join.

Waltz away, enjoy this deadly faire

The maggots have upon your cool loin.

This will be your very last affair"

   - We lusted and sinned… we deserve our lot…

Like seconds, minutes the years fly by…

Cry or smile, scream or laugh; it matters not;

The day arrives when you too will die.

Midnight fell upon the rooftops. Hooted

The owl from across the misty field.

The Banker scurried with all his looted

Gold coins, from prying eyes to shield.

At the crossroad seven devils waited

With iron bars in their hands and when

He drew his sword, with his breath abated,

Death whispered to him: "Just hold on then!

Your fight's in vain. It's hopeless all, alas,

I'll take you with your gold, just the same,

You puffed up, useless, silly little ass,

N' leave you buried and without a name."

- We all been cheaters… we deserve our lot…

Like seconds, minutes the years fly by…

Cry or smile, scream or laugh; it matters not;

The day arrives when you too will die.

On her golden cushion sat the Grand Dame,

Howling and crying: "Not yet, not yet!"

But He embraced her and like in fair game

Grabbed her by her long, ebony jet-

Black hair. "Let me have one more tepid kiss!

Let me have one more pearl-braided dress!

Don't let me a last compliment to miss!

Let me have just one more hot caress!"

But, spoiling her white breasts with ugly mark,

Which like cancerous ulcer grew fast,

With a snigger, He gave her no remark

N' through the door carried her at last.

- Lazily we lounged… we deserve our lot…

Like seconds, minutes the years fly by…

Cry or smile, scream or laugh; it matters not;

The day arrives when you too will die.

Over the hot flames bent the Alchemist

As his clock struck and the ticking stopped.

"God or Satan! Let me save from this mist

Just a speck!" Then his brow mopped,

Just one more day he begged to solve the quest.

"I'll solve it by tomorrow night-fall,

If you allow me just one more request:

Just one more day… I will solve it all!"…

"No, you will not!" - a voice said - "You will not!"

His retort exploded with a bang.

Ice formed on his brow, which till now was hot

N' he was taken to join the gang.

- We all chased secrets… we deserve our lot…

Like seconds, minutes the years fly by…

Cry or smile, scream or laugh; it matters not;

The day arrives when you too will die.

With ringing bells - at Reims - arrived the plague;

Stiff corpses covered the sacred ground,

When the Fat Bishop delivered his vague

Sermon, whilst "saintly" walking around.

Death gripped him there; grabbing him by his waist:

"My Lord just for you this song I sing

Your life had been a complete utter waste;

You kissed arses n' the poor kissed your ring.

Be a bishop, pope, ugly heretic,

A saint consumed at the stake by fire,

Be a hero, know-all, bright eclectic,

Makes no odds. You'll be swallowed by mire!"

- We're all hypocrites… we deserve our lot…

Like seconds, minutes the years fly by…

Cry or smile, scream or laugh; it matters not;

The day arrives when you too will die.

The Old Peasant sensed his approaching fate,

Waiting for Him, standing in the field.

"My body has no value; help me Mate!

This parched soil can hardly give a yield.

Take me and like manure scatter my dust

Out in the fields with the soil to mix;

It is the right way; fair and good and just

Reaper Brother! This much you must fix!"

He nodded and like mother holding son

Gently scattered his ashes… real slow…

N' walking towards the slowly rising sun

Melted into the tender red glow…

- We all turn to dust… we deserve our lot…

Like seconds, minutes the years fly by…

Cry or smile, scream or laugh; it matters not;

The day arrives when you too will die.

Envoi:

When the wind blows your ashes up and fast

It's too late to say: "Oh, I am sorry."

Live every day as if it were your last;

Live wise, live well and… Memento Mori.

© P. J. Oszmann. 2003.

© Illustration: Etching on copper plate. By P. J. O. Scanned & Reduced in Photoshop

Explanatory notes.

There is a long history to this piece apart from the fact that I once believed that it originated from the fifteenth century.Faludy's first volume of the "Villon Ballads" were published in 1938 in Budapest. It took Hungary by storm. Within a very short period of time fourteen editions were published; proving the work to be an unprecedented literary success. I first encountered the Ballads and the Ballad of Danse Macabre in particular (A Haláltánc-Ballada in Hungarian) in the late nineteen forties. In the wake of my war time experiences it made an enormous impact on me. I can only say that I carried it in my subconscious for decades. Somehow it had to surface.Recently I reread the Faludy "translation" (in a volume published in New York & Geneva in 1954) and having bought - someway back - a 1962 French Edition of Villon's works, I intended to check through to compare the structure at least. Much to my disappointment I found nothing even vaguely comparable to the Faludy translation. I found nothing similar either in content, title or structure, which - to me - represented a bit of a puzzle. I felt that I could have overlooked the obvious, as my French is almost non-existent these days and I could not pretend to be able to follow fifteen century French verse. However, I can count lines and syllables and am able to spot some similarities when they are apparent.I asked for help from my cousin, who was born and partly educated in France and in the meantime I had a notion that Faludy was, perhaps, a little too liberal with his translation. Some further digging in libraries resulted in finding an authenticated English translation of all of Villon's work, with the French text on one side and the English text on the opposing pages. This finding dispelled all illusions that the Ballad I so loved and admired originated from Villon. From further research about Faludy it now seems, that for some reason or other he added several pieces of his own to the "Villon Ballads." Rumour has it that he was out of favour with the Hungarian authorities (he spent some time in jail for his political views under the Communist regime) and he may have taken his revenge by including and hiding some of his own banned works amongst the translations.This charade - however fraudulent or cheeky it may seem - should not detract from the beauty and mastery of his poetry.In the belief that this piece was a translation of a Villon poem and in the absence of the original Villon, I attempted to follow Faludy's structure and story line as close as possible, keeping to the content and imagery as far as my humble ability allowed. Whilst the story and the nine main characters, as well as the structure (number of lines per stanza, the meter, the paired rhymes and number of stanzas) I followed faithfully, I cannot, in all honesty, say that I was able to reconstruct every image and the words in all the stanzas faithfully. I had to take away some and had to add some of my own. The best I could hope for was to give a "flavour". I made, however, two deliberate departures from the Hungarian text. One was adding a four line Envoi which I thought was quite consistent with Villon's own Ballad style; the other was a slight alteration to the refrain. The last two lines in the Hungarian text of the refrain read and sound like a "Christian Mantra". Their removal was not an intentional snub at Christians or Christianity in general, but more like an attempt at adding a more universal meaning to the refrain. Should this departure be seen by anyone to be anything other than what I sincerely intended; I apologise.

I release the Ballad here with a humble apology to both Faludy and Villon. I am offering it not to elicit any possible praise, but rather to pay my homage to two great masters who influenced me greatly and also possibly to draw attention to and create interest in these two outstanding poets.If I achieved that much my effort will not be in vain. Should anyone spot any glaring grammatical, poetic or linguistic error, please shout loud and clear! I am not easily offended.

 P.J.O. London, May 2003.