I love the mad, the ones who scream first
without calculating what they’ll gain, what they’ll lose
Those who always in the minority, who stood
to the side at concerts and sports stadiums
when the crowd asked for gallows and blood.

I love nitwits who don’ to wait till the end
to ask for their turn to speak. For them
the stake is ready, the fire is always slowly burning.
The greasy rope forever awaits them,
the lubricated guillotine, the put-together cross.
Right at this moment a thousand prisons
are being built for them few.

I love fools those who ignored the voice
of the cautious (who were the first to stick their head
inside a sack and still keep it there)
since they couldn’t look calmly at evil.
I love dunces who cursed the ones hard at works
building a wall, tearing down a bridge.

I love the ones they spit on and laugh at,
the ones who lack good manners
who rose against the Roman authority
of national paradise, those denounced
by their own brothers, left by their wives,
whom the priests’ cursed and students hid.
They were the ones who lit our way in the dark.

Translated by Charles Simic