Homo Sapiens Mon Cul, traduit par Shakespeare !

Mountains of Filth

O hapless kind, thou art but a drifting speck upon a fading orb, a plague upon this fragile world. What purpose dost thou serve, O humanity accurs’d? To what noble end hath thy existence tended? Verily, history’s quill, most unerring, doth scribe thy worth: to heap ever higher thy mountains of foul corruption. Thy craft lies in crafting filth—producing, amassing, and scattering thy refuse across thyself and the wretched sphere that must bear thy weight.

From the dawn of time, the chronicles of men have borne witness to thy singular gift: to render all into naught but defilement. Yea, thou dost summon forth abominations in myriad forms—mental, political, and commercial. Thy fruits are rot, thy legacies poison. Thy arts of industry, agriculture, and governance are but tools to fashion ruin and misery. Thy hands, crude and unworthy, twist all blessings into instruments of suffering, cloaking the globe in oceans of noxious vapor and loathsome decay.

Behold, thou alchemist most perverse, who transformeth gold into excrement. Thy barbarous touch corrupteth all—fields and skies, seas and minds, the bounty of earth and the wealth of knowledge. Even the heavens’ breath, the air and waters of life, doth thou pollute, turning the blessings of creation into pestilent tides of despair.

Is there aught thou canst not profane? The noblest spirits, the fairest gifts, all bow beneath thy hand. The very marrow of thy kind—thought, hope, and vision—liquifieth into loathsome sludge. Thy cities are festooned with monuments to thy disgrace: towers of grime, highways of despair, and the cursed glow of windows, wherein flicker unceasing geysers of falsehood and filth. The horizons of the earth, once resplendent, now groan beneath the weight of thy ruin, crying out for solace yet finding none.

Hath ever a creature of virtue emerged from thy mire? If so, such a soul doth only deepen thy shame, for even the rarest of minds, the purest of hearts, are consumed by the filth thou dost propagate. Should fortune or destiny favor one such as this—should the stars align to grant a brief respite from the tempest of thy corruption—still, their gifts would be seized by thy foul grasp and twisted into horrors unspeakable. Their creations, instead of light, would serve to fashion shadows deeper still.

What bitter jest, that the fruit of genius should serve only to arm thy destruction! Lo, the rotten lords of this decaying earth, those merchants of despair, would turn the triumphs of brilliance into engines of woe. Their cunning lies and serpentine tongues would lay the blame at the feet of the very minds that dared to dream, absolving themselves of the ruin they alone have wrought.

What folly unmatched, that thy vile demagogues, with tongues as forked as serpents, should twist the narrative so. They cry aloud that it is not their foul deeds, nor their theft of utopian visions, that doth drown the world in filth—but rather the dreams themselves. Yea, with sophistry crude, these petty lords of avarice declare that the peril lies not in their corruption but in the daring minds that would challenge their dominion.

By this monstrous lie, they do absolve themselves and cast aspersion upon thought itself—imagination, desire, and intelligence made scapegoats for their crimes. What greater blasphemy could there be? For in so doing, they silence all hope, all striving for change, and entrench their tyranny in the hearts of men. They declare that to think is to sin, that to question is to rebel, and thus chain the very essence of progress beneath the weight of their tyranny.

But hark! The tale grows fouler still. For these lords of decay have proclaimed the death of all utopias. « The wall hath fallen, » they cry, « and with it, the dreams of men! » And so, with their poisoned tongues, they have fashioned a world where no vision may flourish, where no new dawn may rise. They declare that all systems are doomed to filth, all ideologies bound to corruption. « The least foul, » they say of democracy, a phrase that stinks of resignation, of cowardice, of surrender.

And so, by this cunning sleight of hand, they pave the way for their unholy rule. With one stroke, they dismiss the sins of their own hands and turn the world’s ire against those who dare to think, to dream, to imagine a better world. « Blame not the exploiters, » they whisper, « blame the thinkers. » Thus, they shackle the soul of humanity, binding it in chains of despair.

O humanity, thou art an architect of thine own ruin. Thy lands are poisoned, thy seas choked, thy skies blackened with thy folly. Thy arts are hollow, thy sciences turned to tools of destruction. And yet, within thee, there flickers still a spark—a glimmer, faint and fleeting, of what thou might have been. Shall it be extinguished at last, buried beneath the mountains of filth thou hast wrought? Or shall it endure, defying the tide of ruin?

Yet I despair, for thy lords, foul and cunning, hath so ensnared thy soul that thou canst scarcely lift thine eyes to the heavens. These masters of deceit, crowned in the spoils of thy toil, whisper their poisonous words, till the very act of hope is deemed rebellion, and the dreamer a threat to the order of decay.

Once, humanity dared to think. Once, thou didst craft visions of worlds unspoiled, of futures bright. Yet now, thy thoughts are cast in chains, thy imagination branded as folly. Thy utopias, mocked and maligned, are accused of birthing the very corruption that hath swallowed them whole. « Dream not, » they command. « Question not. » And so, thy hands are stilled, thy voice silenced, thy heart shackled.

The age of democracy, that fragile torch of liberty, now sputters and wanes. Thy leaders, cloaked in the guise of benevolence, do but shepherd thee to thy doom. They call it the « least worst » of systems—a phrase so steeped in rot that it stings the nostrils. What justice is there in such a claim, when it serves only to excuse stagnation, to quench the fires of reform?

Behold the masters of thy fate, those lords of commerce and coin. They declare themselves the saviors of civilization, yet their hands drip with the blood of the earth, their wealth a harvest of despair. They weave their webs of finance and law, binding nations and peoples to their will. And thou, O humanity, dost follow blindly, thy soul burdened with their yoke.

Thy lands are scarred, thy waters fouled, thy skies heavy with the smoke of thy labors. Yet still, thou dost not rise. Still, thou dost not question. What curse hath fallen upon thee, that thou shouldst accept thy fate so meekly? Where is thy fire, thy defiance, thy will to overcome?

(chatgpt)