Lost Words, Poem by Charles Cros

To Stéphane Mallarmé

After the bath, the chambermaid
Combs your hair. The ruched peignoir
Slips a little. You listen, proud,
To the madrigals of the psyche.

But the psyche, however, Madame,
Tells you: “This vainly beautiful body,
Decrepit shelter of a semblance of soul,
Cannot escape the tomb.

“Then this carnal mass
Will leave the bones, and the worms
Swarming in each pupil
Will put vague flashes there.

“No more white, but the brown earth
On the bony face. At evening,
No more flaming chandeliers: The moon.”
That is what your mirror says.

You listen to its prophecy
With a bestially proud air.
For woman cares no more
About tomorrow than about yesterday.

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-lost-words-charles-cros/