BALTHAZAR

Balthazar feasts with the nobles,  

raising a toast with a cup in his hand.  

The die, rolled by deceit,  

has placed a crown upon his head.

In his kingdom, first and irreplaceable,  

proud of his heavy fame,  

but in God’s nostrils, there’s smoke,  

as a mighty wind scatters it.

The king is feasting. The wine flows.  

His eyes are heavy with drink.  

A ray shines on the palace walls  

and fingers appear, vaguely.

They inscribe words on the stone wall  

and make Balthazar soberer.  

"What is this frightful writing?  

Where is the interpreter? Where is he?"

Soon the man of God arrives  

to interpret the wisdom penned.  

"Weighed on the scales, you are light,  

and your glory is worth a handful of dust!

Your kingdom is divided today  

and your days are already numbered,  

for with God's gold you feast,  

fooling yourself and your hyenas.

Your power is finished. It ends here.  

Persians and Medes will plunder it.  

And you, humble yourself, for when the Heavenly hammer  

punishes you with prophetic words…"

In the dark night, Balthazar breathes his last,  

pierced by a spear from ambush.  

The die, rolled by deceit,  

snatches his soul away to hell in an instant.

So in the future, on this earth,  

may all remember what earthly glory is…  

The crown is worn, but at a cost,  

etched deep in the black darkness.

Stefan Glavchev  

(The Rise of the Fall)