Karl Marx’s Satanic Verses

Karl Marx was a Satanist, and he praised Satan in three of his songs:

The Fiddler

The Fiddler saws the strings,
His light brown hair he tosses and flings.
    He carries a sabre at his side,
    He wears a pleated habit wide.

“Fiddler, why that frantic sound?
Why do you gaze so wildly round?
    Why leaps your blood, like the surging sea?
    What drives your bow so desperately?”

“Why do I fiddle? Or the wild waves roar?
That they might pound the rocky shore,
    That eye be blinded, that bosom swell,
    That Soul’s cry carry down to Hell.”

“Fiddler, with scorn you rend your heart.
A radiant God lent you your art,
    To dazzle with waves of melody,
    To soar to the star-dance in the sky.”

“How so! I plunge, plunge wihout fail
My blood-black sabre into your soul.
    That art God neither wants nor wists,
    It leaps to the brain from Hell’s black mists.

“Till heart’s bewitched, till senses reel:
With Satan I have struck my deal.
    He chalks the signs, beats time for me,
    I play the death march fast and free.

“I must play dark, I must play light,
Till bowstrings break my heart outright.”

The Fiddler saws the strings,
His light brown hair he tosses and flings.
    He carries a sabre at his side,
    He wears a pleated habit wide.

Invocation of One in Despair

So a god has snatched from me my all
In the curse and rack of Destiny.
All his worlds are gone beyond recall!
Nothing but revenge is left to me!

On myself revenge I’ll proudly wreak,
On that being, that enthroned Lord,
Make my strength a patchwork of what’s weak,
Leave my better self without reward!

I shall build my throne high overhead,
Cold, tremendous shall its summit be.
For its bulwark– superstitious dread,
For its Marshall–blackest agony.

Who looks on it with a healthy eye,
Shall turn back, struck deathly pale and dumb;
Clutched by blind and chill Mortality
May his happiness prepare its tomb.

And the Almighty’s lightning shall rebound
From that massive iron giant.
If he bring my walls and towers down,
Eternity shall raise them up, defiant.

The Pale Maiden

The maiden stands so pale,
So silent, withdrawn,
Her sweet angelic soul
Is misery-torn.

Therein can shine no ray,
The waves tumble over;
There, love and pain both play,
Each cheating the other.

Gentle was she, demure,
Devoted to Heaven,
An image ever pure
The Graces had woven.

Then came a noble knight,
A grand charger he rode;
And in his eyes so bright
A sea of love flowed.

Love smote deep in her breast,
But he galloped away,
For battle-triumph athirst;
Naught made him stay.

All peace of mind is flown,
The Heavens have sunk.
The heart, now sorrow’s throne,
Is yearning-drunk.

And when the day is past,
She kneels on the floor,
Before the holy Christ
A-praying once more.

But then upon that form
Another encroaches,
To take her heart by storm,
‘Gainst her self reproaches.

“To me your love is given
For Time unending.
To show your soul to Heaven
Is merely pretending.”

She trembles in her terror
Icy and stark,
She rushes out in horror,
Into the dark.

She wrings her lily-white hands,
The tear-drops start.
“Thus fire the bosom brands
And longing, the heart.

“Thus Heaven I’ve forfeited,
    I know it full well.
    My soul, once true to God,
    Is chosen for Hell.

He was so tall, alas,
Of stature divine.
His eyes so fathomless,
So noble, so fine.

“He never bestowed on me
His glances at all;
Lets me pine hopelessly
    Till the end of the Soul.

“Another his arm may press,
May share his pleasure;
Unwitting, he gives me distress
Beyond all measure.

“With my soul willingly,
With my hopes I’d part,
Would he but look towards me
And open his heart.

“How cold must the Heavens be
Where he doesn’t shine,
A land full of misery
    And burning with pain.

“But here the surging flood
May deliver me, cooling
The hot fire of heart’s blood,
The bosom’s feeling.”

She leaps with all her might
Into the spray.
Into the cold dark night
She’s carried away.

Her heart, that burning brand,
Is quenched forever;
Her look, that luminous land,
Is clouded over.

Her lips, so sweet and tender,
Are pale and colourless;
Her form, aethereal, slender,
Drifts into nothingness.

And not a withered leaf
Falls from the bough;
Heaven and Earth are deaf,
Won’t wake her now.

By mountain, valley, on
The quiet waves race,
To dash her skeleton
On a rocky place.

The Knight so tall and proud
Embraces his new love,
The cithern sings about
The joys of True Love!

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