Jester was a thief who stole our minutes:
Sad and solemn minutes he would steal.
Makeup, wigs, and other bits and snippets
He would give to other clowns at will.

Treading lightly, quietly and unnoticed,
In a little break between the acts,
He’d appear among us in the circus,
Sometimes in his goofy jester’s hat.

Audience was spoiled with his attention:
They just want to laugh like all the rest.
"How is he a comic?" they would question,
"If he is a jester, he must jest!"

So did we... We grumbled, low and hollow:
"You’re in the arena, play your role!" -
In the meantime, he removed our sorrows,
With unnoted effort, from our souls.

Yet again, we all remained uncertain,
For our circus is of worldwide fame.
But our comic is a gloomy person
Not a funny comic, just the same.

Brazenly, as if he tried to mock us,
With both hands, not hiding, in plain sight,
He stole sadness from the inner pockets
Of our souls, costumed in suits tonight.

We were clapping till our palms were bloody,
We were laughing as if being deaf,
He did not do anything too funny,
He just took our grief upon himself.

Joking to the point of full exertion,
Mime grew sadder, judging by his tone.
He got used to carry people’s burdens
And considered all their grief his own.

Jester’s grief was palpable and heavy:
He bent down inside the lighted space.
Soon his pantomimes looked sad to many,
And the wrinkles cut the jester’s face.

He was busy, doing us a favor,
Taking handfuls of our woe from us.
As if he’d anesthetized our labor,
Never giving selfish thoughts a chance.

Now we laughed again at will, unhindered.
Merry for our times, I have to say.
Oh, how we have been so finely swindled:
We were robbed of what was in our way!

Time is up! His knees were sore from kneeling,
He walked out, immersed in his own thoughts.
In his absence, Redhead is a leader,
In the circus and beyond, of course.

The good genius took away our torments,
Brought them backstage - and we’re having fun.
Suddenly the swarm of stolen moments
Concentrated quickly into one.

Then the drum beat, silence, and the curtain.
Countless candles in the lamps turned black.
On his shoulders he had too much burden,
Our own burden, and it broke his back.

The bystanders promptly reached concordance:
Here’s a drunk collapsed, out of control.
In his final pantomime performance
Jester played and overplayed his role.

He froze still - and not across the ocean.
Next to us, he stretched to his full length.
The first jester chocked on sad emotions,
Simply by misjudging his own strength.

Feeling quite determined, I walked forward,
But I bowed before him just in time.
For his trick’s no longer a performance:
Lady Death’s the queen of pantomimes!

Though this thief cut down the ropes and spancels,
He did not steal horses at nightfall.
Now the fool has died. He stole our seconds:
Sad and solemn seconds from us all.

Some of us, who for the sake of bragging,
Would not yield to any change of plans,
But the clown sneaked up of them, unflagging,
Soundlessly and calmly, on his hands.

There’s no trace of him, he’s gone, he’s vanished!
Or is this another zany act?
But his hat is something I imagined,
For this jester was without a hat.