They are, still visible, eternally present, our selfish guides all dressed in gold.
They dictate their laws, political or divine, to a herd of vermin who always know... are you.
Welcome to the superior shepherds, masters who see, speak but never listen.
Let us cheer, heads bowed, the great sacred march of these oracles of doubt.
And I who envy them, and I who respect them, love them to hate and throw myself under their robes,
Never, ever, more shameful I would only be suitable as a slave or as a wounded whore.
Their songs soothe me, their anger bruises me, their speeches excite me and all this gives me life.
Let us suffer, flagellants that we are, for the useless glory of these tiny men.
However, the funeral pyre will blaze up. And we will throw ashes from stellar oracles!
They are, still visible, eternally present, our cold and capricious fanciful suns.
They rape the souls, penetrate the thoughts, confess and submit like Marthe to Tarasque.
Welcome to the saviors, tense and cursed, soothsayers or virtuosos of vaticinations.
Let us cheer, trapped, the rigid approach of these kings-architects of resignation.
And I who embrace them, and I who sublimate them, caress them, support them and yet divine them,
Never, ever, dissident I would be but forever a renegade towards freedom.
Their bullying reassures me, their writings upset me, their sermons enchant me throughout the mass.
Let us suffer, calm and docile agamis, and let's drown out the bawling of the rebellious stressors.