I hear the call rolling, rolling, the call of Egmont,
heavy as the tread of empires marching slow across the earth,
three grave beats to the measure, like the pulse of shackled nations,
Spanish heel grinding into Flemish soil, proclamations hanging dark and unanswerable,
yet under them the people stir, restless, multitudinous, whispering of plots, of hidden fire,
of men and women breathing in cellars, in fields, in harbors, refusing to be still.

Then comes the leap—O the sudden charge!
Downward rush like Egmont himself bounding forth, prophet, fighter,
no asking, no kneeling, only the body hurling into storm, into cannon-smoke,
torches darting flame on rain-slick streets,
the second surge rising, seizing the tyrant’s drum and beating it backward,
turning the march of chains into the march of heroes,
oppression’s own rhythm stolen, inverted, worn as a defiant banner!

I see the battle without name, the struggle twisting, clashing, fragmenting,
armies colliding on open plain, sweat and blood and iron taste in the mouth,
the old solemn dance returning heavier, darker, almost swallowing the light—
execution nearing, Klärchen’s sweet ghost dissolving into air,
Egmont in the dungeon, head erect, words forming like sparks on dry tinder.

Yet listen—O listen to the hush, the deep hush after cruelty’s boast!
Too quiet, too deep—then a stirring, like the first green shoot refusing the grave,
the tremor upward, the distant horns of coming dawn,
the final kindling, blazing, not mere endurance but transfiguration!
Martyrdom bursting into sun, fanfares of the spirit tearing darkness apart,
chains shattered—not by muscle alone but by the soul’s great refusal to bow,
final strokes ringing, ringing, freedom purchased in red, ringing clear forever.

I sing the soul of resistance in every sudden blow,
rhythm that will not lie down quiet,
the man facing the axe who makes the blade lightning,
Egmont living longest when the last shout dies—
in the great silence after, still vibrating through me, through you, through every breast that beats democratic and free.

O I am the one who contains multitudes—
the prisoner, the executioner, the torch-bearer, the widow weeping,
the dawn that will not be buried, the people rising as one vast body electric!
All tyrannies fall, all heroes rise in the same immortal pulse,
and in this uprising I hear America too, unborn then, yet already shouting in the blood,
I hear myself in Egmont, I hear you, reader, comrade, in the triumphant close—
we are not conquered, we are not silent,
we are the resurrection, the undaunted stride, the endless song!

:: 01.21.2028 ::