Is it?
Is that so?
………………………
The poem is very beautiful and it expresses a truth encountered practically.
However, only sometimes this is the case. And that’s for a simple reason.
Because everything depends on the spiritual level of the king or ruler.
If he loves the Truth, the Lie would have no chance, or would have little chance.
It’s very simple.
It is NOT enough to be well-intentioned, but you must also be able to put your intentions into practice.
Otherwise, it is good to remember that “the road to hell is paved with good intentions, but not put into practice.”
Therefore, we must have no reservations about loving the Truth. And to seek it with all the strength at our disposal.
The king’s situation described in the poem can easily be repeated in the life of each of us, because we are each like little kings in our family, at the place of eating and, especially, in our own life, because we can dispose, apparently freely, of our intentions, our desires, our aspirations and our actions.
But it is also quite possible to succeed and for the Truth to sit with the King at the table. We just have to choose, at every moment, the Truth.
The real solution is practice and spiritual transformation.
And we have no alternative. Because on the other side awaits us the situation described in the poem that follows.
We wish you success!
Leo Radutz
AdAnima Academic Society
P.S.” An ounce of practice is worth tons of theory.”
……………………………………………………………
1907 – Alexandru Vlahuță
The lie sits with the king at the table…
That’s just a bit of a big story:
Since they are kings, since they are lies,
They bring together the best home.
Oh, there’s so much to do, you see,
That’s all the worries a king’s been on!
That’s all there is to know! And, understandably,
His squire can’t be anyone.
What a happy country, your majesty!…
The mouth of the lie is flaunted.
That only God has put you on a crown
Wisdom and kindness
Shepherd of this nation that stands to perish,
What you wouldn’t even know it was, poor fellow,
If he is not under thy hermitage his harbour,
If you don’t have a lump of wax in your hand.
That you savages found here,
Savages, and mischievous, and fools in turn,
And a poverty like you don’t think…
But you make a sign, and they start to rise
Armies, fortresses, palaces of the new world,
The springs of life are unclogged;
Everywhere riches flood;
And you split them with your hands—both.
Today the world covets your contents.
There is joy and abundance in the country,
That hungry mouths come from outside.
All the croup sounds glorious name.
Look, the ground that’s dressed is…
I grow flowers wherever you step, and the flesh laughs.
You share your luck only with your eyes.
Still peasants frolic in the villages!…
And he likes the king. It’s a big deal.
How it charms kings Lie. It’s right
That she, long ago, on the thrones steps
It was the choicest delight.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Your Grace, there’s a stranger out there,
A bit of a jerk, but he seems like a great man,
And… The truth is, he said his name was…
Where is it from… that he’s not from here in the country.
The pale lie melts its voice:
Oh, don’t get it! I know him, he’s the harbinger
Badly, what does the omniscient do
And he sees the collapse everywhere.
It’s the one that’s conspiring against you.
Envy in his heart groans
And his mouth is full of curses.
You can’t hear what they’re saying…
And yet, says the king, let him come!
Proof that right at the palace Lie
She’s not always victorious.
Monarchs do some crazy things…
Looking into the eyes of the king, the stranger,
Arms on chest crossed,
The saying: The country, your majesty,
It’s hard. You don’t hear his sigh,
Because music plays around you. And slaves
Sleeping, like in the wall, you’re getting married,
If you can no longer see those outside,
Your good subjects, the many and industrious.
That you didn’t circle towards them to cut your way
Know in your country what soul beats,
All you wanted was crooked backs.
And mouths open to your praise.
That if he was human to stand straight in your face,
As an enemy, you pushed him away from you.
The elders perish. But the new army is coming,
And painful things still learn!
Parades, theatrical set, illuminations,
All that the vulgar and children deceive,
This is all your royal glory.
On the sad void around your decorations!
You in this country see only heaven
What yours will tell you in the blink of an eye:
Ruin them under the poleted paper,
Under fir branches crackle rot,
But you are happy. Flatterers
Lift up hymns to thy glory
And they make you not hear the song of mourning
With which hungry hoes fall asleep.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
You did not love your people, Your Majesty!
Or you didn’t understand it, and it’s the same.
From top to bottom the lie spread
It binds and unties in the country everything.
And to give you a magnifying foam,
Like a child he carries you and shows you
Glitters and flowers… Find out what you’re going to do
The terrible times of the revelation?…
And what hopes were placed in you,
How joyful your people have come your way,
With bread and salt!… Hosanals!
His savior thought he was coming.
How joyful the people came your way!
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
And what a sad faith will remain with him;
That you couldn’t reach out to him,
From the heavy breastplate of your pride!
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
These did not awaken the king,
That the Truth Has Been Kicked Out
And the servants thrust him down the ladder,
Naturally, it goes without saying.
*
Years go by. And what a sweet delusion it is!
You god are among kings! Glory to you!…
In her soft, tousled embers, she writes
With her golden feather Flattery.
Scarcely is a celebration over,
And then there’s another. The music plays…
Put on adornments, holy land,
Let no one know what hurts you!
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
But what, Lord, is this roar?
What’s this growing crap?
It shakes the ground and moans,
Like the sea, when it whips a tempest.
Flames rise, arms desperate,
To the dark, desolate and cold sky.
Suddenly the wind of madness passes
And it shatters the flood of sins.
In wails a world collapses
Built on lies. But what anger!
How the terrible storm hisses!
The brothers jump among themselves to paint each other.
The dry furrow again demands blood.
Women with braided hair, crazy,
And they put their children to death. Genune,
A flurry of hatred that is raging!
Open your big eyes, old king
And, trembling, he rose from his jilt.
Have anyone his cherished peace spoil them?
And at the time, he still doesn’t understand it.