Munch-Petersen, Gustaf slave -!

slave -!

your murmuring soul
calls me
the snake-man and the whip of cruelty -,
your sneering lips
are chewing
the fettered shouts:
tormenter on his self-made throne of haughtiness -,
oppresser with his lifted spear
of un-sharpened death -!

the film of your sight
is the skin of the slave
which is you -

tenderness is weeping
deep in my soul, unused -,
but not for you -
hungering love is awake
for ever in the veins of my covered limbs -,
but not for you -

your race, it is,
who makes me
an imprisoned ruler
and blackens the naked face
of my glory of life -
your race, it is,
who forces me
to make a merciless sword
of my free-born soul -
your race, it is,
slave -
- the hating barrenness
behind the eyelids of yours and your numerous breed
is distasteful to me -
leave me alone -