Song of the Painters

Poem by Charles Cros Collection The Collar of ClawsPeriod 19th century

Lacquers in the tints of currants,
With you wonders are made,
Lips without equal are made.

Yellow, red and brown ochres,
You have, like perfumes,
And the hues of deceased lands.

You, white of modern ceruse,
On the canvas you shine, lantern
Chasing night and dull weariness.

Ultramarines, Cobalts, Vermilions,
Cadmium worth millions,
We marvel at you.

And all that is put on canvases
And women without veils are painted
And the sun and the stars.

And very little money is earned,
The buyer in this changing time
Not being very intelligent.

What does it matter! one lives on dew,
Surprising you iridescent,
Beautiful nature, well posed.

Feminine Plural
I am encumbered with lost loves,
I am dismayed by offered loves.
Here you come peeping out, young green leaves.
You must be paid for, weddings that are owed.
The snow comes down, assiduous feathers.
Winter late, you disconcert me.
Coldness of friends, you astonish me, indeed.
And my roads are deserted, arduous.

New loves, and you past loves,
You become too entangled in my thoughts
In Aeolian discords.

Spring, come then quickly and with your thrusts
With a broom of mad eglantines
Drive from my heart the old loves!

Charles Cros

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

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