Panic
Not in deserted meadows Pan wonders
But in the crowded cities where millions live.
Asphalt and concrete are his stamping ground
At noon, during the long hot summers.
From luxury flats in block apartments
He leaps into the latest cars.
He lives with giant banks for background
Surrounded by his minions.
He singles out the silent, the helpless
Avoiding those who bare their teeth.
Near factory wall and muffled fortress gate
He pounces on the meagre joys
Of vanquished men, discour ged women.
Not in the sultry summers alone
But any day, almost, in the big cities
He combs the boulevards with mute malicious laughter.
Seeing him face to face the unemployed
Turn giddy as they pace the hard dank pavements.
Where the poor, the sick, the hungry crawl,
In the city’s belly, in remote alleyways,
His sense of mischief unaussuaged, he vents
More fury on men’s cruel civilization
With atom bombs and guided missiles.
Tomorrow? If there is trace of him in the news,
The bread, the water with its taste of hemlock,
Or if his shadow falls on the faces of children,
There is little hope in tomorrow for such as us.
In color, in human toil, in race...
Jews, workmen, negroes... Pan!
If there’s no decent life in this world
What have the centuries left for man?
Translated by Nermin Menemencioglu
But in the crowded cities where millions live.
Asphalt and concrete are his stamping ground
At noon, during the long hot summers.
From luxury flats in block apartments
He leaps into the latest cars.
He lives with giant banks for background
Surrounded by his minions.
He singles out the silent, the helpless
Avoiding those who bare their teeth.
Near factory wall and muffled fortress gate
He pounces on the meagre joys
Of vanquished men, discour ged women.
Not in the sultry summers alone
But any day, almost, in the big cities
He combs the boulevards with mute malicious laughter.
Seeing him face to face the unemployed
Turn giddy as they pace the hard dank pavements.
Where the poor, the sick, the hungry crawl,
In the city’s belly, in remote alleyways,
His sense of mischief unaussuaged, he vents
More fury on men’s cruel civilization
With atom bombs and guided missiles.
Tomorrow? If there is trace of him in the news,
The bread, the water with its taste of hemlock,
Or if his shadow falls on the faces of children,
There is little hope in tomorrow for such as us.
In color, in human toil, in race...
Jews, workmen, negroes... Pan!
If there’s no decent life in this world
What have the centuries left for man?
Translated by Nermin Menemencioglu