THE SPIRAL OR ON THE DECLINE OF A CENTURY
Otto Kotouč translation
A spiral is a regular endless curve beginning at the center and running in diverging rings continually in a circle so that the distance of a point on any one revolution from the second is as great as the second from the third and so on.—A Definition of a Spiral.
It was ages ago. ’Twas the moment perhaps That Darwin describes: White was the beast That suddenly raised Her head on high, Stood firm upon Her hind feet Gazed up above To the shining ball In its vault of blue, Gazed all around On luxuriant earth, On the fruits thereof And all its creatures. A mighty feeling Of dominion and strength Stirred her to the depths. And from her breast First welled the joyous, Broad, powerful, Victorious: I, Which seemed to her The final center Of things all around.— And from the white beast At that time arose man. And life began. The embittered power Of afflictions and pains (Which unbeknown Each “I” enclosed As a soul within) Drove them on and on. Life fled before it As flees the hare From the light weasel Which sits at its throat. From a small point Life flew in a curve Of broad expanse. The curve unwinds, Unwinds and unwinds In a whirling spiral Along which man rushes, Impelled by pain And strengthened by hope Of peace and brighter aims. And the spiral spreads Through space without bounds, Without depth and height, Without breadth and length, On into the unknown. The embittered power Of afflictions and pains Impels it onward. It crumbled souls, Created gods, Crushed masses, Established kings, Impressed the steel Into the hands of man Which he in turn Plunged into himself; Led spirits into Sciences’ labyrinth And to streams of art, But nowhere to fortune. Mankind rushes along The whirling spiral Through space without bounds, Without depth and height, Without breadth and length, On into the unknown. Counseling gods, That gave not fortune, Overturned thrones, That gave not fortune, Blood that was shed And brought not fortune, Sciences and arts Where man found not fortune, All lies casts aside Along life’s frightful way. A monster huge Of bluish color, And called the past, Creeps aft mankind, Devours it all With mighty jaws, And, insatiable, Grows day by day. Mankind rushes on And ever onward. And again new gods, And new kings, And new battles, And new arts, And new sciences,— And again all lies Behind him far In the spiral’s path As the monster’s prey. And the spiral spreads and spreads Through endless space. And wretched mankind Thus chases fortune. Joyful cries at times Sound from a hundred throats. And strained nerves Tremble with bliss. Wretched mankind! Some sort of phantom, Fata morgana, Glittered somewhere for thee In the boundless desert! Wretched mankind! The following hour Again art thou further on, Ahasuerus of thy fable, In thy flight! And the deceitful phantom Will find itself in the jaws Of the bluish past, As all things else! And the spiral spreads and spreads. The nineteenth circle, Which we call enlightened, Runs into the twentieth. ’Tis an age of steam, Chemistry and physics, And a god grown old, And several kings, And rows of fine battles, And full of knowledge, And nerves unstrung, And of vain hopes, And full of misfortune As all the rest. The embittered power Of afflictions and pains Drives us from it Onward and onward Along the whirling spiral. That bluish past With gigantic jaws, With a great belly, Follows in our footsteps. It will at least find A profitable spoil.