Their legs for every mount,
For all wealth the gold of their gazes,
Along the path of adventures
They go in rags and haggard.
The wise man, indignant, harangues them;
The fool pities these reckless madmen;
The children stick out their tongues at them
And the girls mock them.
It is because, hateful and ridiculous,
And indeed malevolent,
They look, at dusk,
Like a bad dream one has;
It is because, on their shrill guitars
Clenching the hand of liberties,
They whine strange songs,
Nostalgic and rebellious;
It is finally because in their pupils
Laughs and weeps — tedious —
The love of eternal things,
Of the old dead and the ancient gods!
– So, go, vagabonds without truce,
Wander, fatal and cursed,
Along the abysses and the shores,
Under the closed eye of paradises!
Nature allies itself with man
To chastise as it must
The proud melancholy
That makes you walk with head high,
And, avenging on you the blasphemy
Of vast vehement hopes,
Bruises your anathema forehead
With the rude shock of the elements.
The Junes burn and the Decembers
Freeze your flesh to the bones,
And fever invades your limbs,
Which tear themselves on the reeds.
Everything repels you and everything grieves you,
And when death comes for you,
Thin and cold, your corpse
Will be disdained by the wolves!
Paul Verlaine
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-grotesques-paul-verlaine/
