We present this work in honor of May Revolution Day.

 

ON MAY 25, 1850

Roses! Roses! a genius without a second
He formed your strange destiny at his whim:
After Satan, no one in the world,
Like you, it did less good or as much damage.

Aborted from a crime, you have wanted
May your works be twinned with your origin;
And, never repenting of the crime,
Only the hours of stillness afflict you.

With the flames of Tartarus lit
A cloud of blood surrounds you;
And throughout the horizon of your life
Blood, barbaric! and blood, and blood smokes.

Your hand will move like lightning
The foundations of a temple, and suddenly
From the altar the idols of May
They poured blood from his broken forehead.

Justice is approaching religious
To call at the tomb of Belgrano:
And that immortal dead man opens his slab,
Raising his helpless hand to the sky.

Freedom escapes with glory
To hide in the crevices of the Andes;
Claiming memory from the ice
From those times when they were great.

Idols and time disappear;
The radiant lights go out,
And in immaculate blood they turn red
The fragments of pyres and altars.

Glory, name, virtue, Argentine homeland,
Everything perishes when your foot stamps,
Everything turns to dust, in your ambition of ruin,
Under the helmet the foals of your pampa.

Well, Rosas, later? such is—heed—
The question of God and history:
That after you accuse or defend
In the ruin of a town or in its glory.

That fatal afterward that challenges you
Over the corpse of my country,
In my inspired poet’s voice,
The tremendous voice of the one who lights the day.

Speak, and, in pursuit of destruction, respond:
Where are the works that thy hand sprouted?
Where your creation? The bases where
A great idea or a vain thought?

What mind was there in your bloody insomnia
That you were so driven to so much crime?
Move away, move away, abortion of the devil
What are you doing wrong to enjoy crying!

The human race is horrified to see you,
Indus hyena transformed into a man;
But woe to you, that one day when I understood you
He will not hate you, he will despise your name!

Time has offered you its moments;
Fortune has touched your head;
And, barbarian and nothing more, you have not known
Neither gain time, nor gain greatness.

You overthrew a republic, and your forehead
With an imperial diadem you do not elevate ledo;
Freedom died, and, omnipotent,
Slave you live by your own fear.

You want to be king, and you fear it will become
In the crown of Milan yours;
You want to be great, and your soul is not right
How to rise from his sphere.

Your kingdom is the empire of death;
Your greatness, the terror of your crimes;
And your ambition, your freedom, your luck
Open graves and form outcasts.

Wild gaucho of the rough pampas,
That is not glory, nor value, nor life;
That’s only killing because it strips
They gave you a fratricidal sword.

And, great criminal in memory
Of the whole world, of your full crime,
You will be a reptile that will step on history
Disgusted by your form and your poison!

Nero sets fire to Rome, and contemplates it,
And there is I don’t know what is heroic in such a crime;
But you, with a soul that the devil tempers,
How much do you do has your misery written on it.

No Atreus when in danger hesitates,
And you, more than them for evil, trembled;
And bloodier than bloody Attila,
You never looked at the blood of the fight.

In all those eagles that grabbed
Humanity and, in carnage fever,
With their metal claws they wounded her,
There is some virtue: even courage.

But your heart only overflows
Of miseries and crimes and vices,
With a stupid and rabid thirst
Of doing evil and inventing torture.

You don’t even owe yourself fate
With which you have quenched your thirst for blood;
Tiger you met on the way
A wounded lion that you have devoured.

Spirit of evil born to the world,
You have not been good even to yourself;
And you will only leave an unclean name
When descending into your first abyss.

Mothers will name you for their children
When you want to scare them in the crib;
And they, trembling and fixed on your image,
They will fall asleep dreaming that they saw you.

The troubadours will pay tribute
To the stories that your memory invents;
And execrating your fruitless crimes,
Rude and vulgar History will call you.

Ah, that I bless almost your crimes,
Faced with the anger of my country,
Why do you suffer such a barbaric punishment?
As long as the light of day shines!

Because as long as the sun shines in El Plata
You will suffer that punishment eternally;
Never to your name the thankless memory:
Never curse your tender breast;

And finally scourge of your luck,
You will see when you breathe out that it rises
Beautiful and triumphant and powerful and strong
The town that you outraged with your plant.

For there will not be in it, from your delicate hands,
More than just a stain on the neck;
That you don’t know, vulgar tyrant,
Nor leave the mark of your chains.