Like a jester complaining of the cruel weight

of his hump—let me tell about my orphaned state.

Behind the devil there’s his horde, behind the thief there’s his band,

behind everyone there’s someone to understand

and support him—the assurance of a living wall

of thousands just like him should he stumble and fall;

the soldier has his comrades, the emperor has his throne,

but the jester has nothing but his hump to call his own.

And so: tired of holding to the knowledge that I’m quite

alone and that my destiny is always to fight

beneath the jeers of the fool and the philistine’s derision,

abandoned—by the world—with the world—in collision,

I blow with all my strength on my horn and send

its cry into the distance in search of a friend.

And this fire in my breast assures me I’m not all

alone, but that some Charlemagne will answer my call!