Mourir pour des idées

Die for ideas

Die for ideas, that's a great idea
Me, I nearly died because I didn't have any
Because those who had the ideals, an overwhelming crowd
Fell on me yelling "Slaughter"
They were able to convince me, and my cheeky Muse
Admitted she was wrong, and rallied to their cause
Just maintaining a tiny suspicion of doubt
Die for ideas, OK, but just make it a slow death
OK, a slow death


Judging that there's no danger in staying at home
Let's meander on the road to the other world
Because if you force the pace, you end up dying
For ideals which are out of date tomorrow.
Now if there's one thing that's really bitter and upsetting
When you offer up your soul to God, its realising
That you took the wrong turning, got hold of the wrong idea.
Die for ideas, OK, but just make it a slow death,
OK, a slow death.

The Saint John Chrysotoms* who preach martyrdom
Usually manage to hang around on earth.
Dying for ideas, let's be clear about it,
That's their reason for living, so they're not going to lose it.
In all the different camps you can see people who take the place
Of Mathusalah when it comes to longevity.
I conclude from this that they must say to themselves, aside,
"Die for ideas, OK, but just make it a slow death,
OK, a slow death."

For ideas demanding the ultimate sacrifice,
Sects of every shade offer the sequel,
And the question arises in the minds of novice victims:
"Die for ideas, that's fine, but which ones?"
And as they all resemble each other,
When he sees them approaching under their big banners,
The wise man hesitates, turns around the tomb.
Die for ideas, OK, but just make it a slow death,
OK, a slow death.

Now, if it just needed a few hecatombs
For everything to change, everything fall into place,
After so many "great eves" when so many ######### fall,
We would already have reached Paradise on earth.
But the golden age is constantly put off to the Kalends,
The gods are always thirsty, have never had enough,
And its death, death again and again.
Die for ideas, OK, but just make it a slow death,
OK, a slow death.

O all you firebreathers, o all you good apostles,
Go and die first, we stand back and let you through.
But please, I beg you, let the rest of us get on with living,
Life is just about our only luxury down here.
For after all, Death is sufficiently vigilant,
He doesn't need anyone to hold his scythe for him.
Let's have no more macabre dances around the scaffold.
Die for ideas, OK, but just make it a slow death,
OK, a slow death.

© 2000 Dr. Ted Neather
This translation aims to convey meaning and not attempt poetry or song.
*Jean Bouche d'or is the French name for Saint John Chrysotom, a Greek Orthodox Pope
(or rather Patriarch, as he was then known) renowned in Byzantine times for his intolerance.
He was nicknamed 'mouth of gold' because of his skills in oratory.
It is said that in a candidacy race for Emperor, he backed a 'Caligulaic' psychopath over a liberal reformer
because the latter was divorced, without regard to the consequent bloodbath. Our thanks to Rob Kerr for this information.