To the Imbeciles, Poem by Charles Cros

When we iridesce
All our horizons
With emeralds and copper,
Well-settled folk
Free from worries
Must not pursue us.

One becomes very refined,
But one dies of hunger,
Playing the guitar,
One is not carried away,
Winter or summer,
On any station’s train.

The railway
Is truly too dear.
The steamer cleaving the wave
Is dearer still;
It takes a lot of gold
To go to the end of the world.

So, well-settled folk,
Free from worries,
Beware of the poet,
Who may, being hungry,
Put you, in the end,
A few bullets in the head.

Charles Cros

Translation generated by Poésies 123 with assistance from the deepseek-chat artificial-intelligence model.

Text published on Poésies 123: https://www.poesies123.com/en/poem-to-the-imbeciles-charles-cros/