Beauty of women, their weakness, and these pale hands
That often do good and can do all evil,
And these eyes, where nothing animal remains
But just enough to say: ” enough ” to male furies.
And always, maternal luller of death rattles,
Even when she lies, this voice! Matinal
Call, or song so sweet at vespers, or fresh signal,
Or beautiful sob that goes to die at the fold of shawls!…
Hard men! Atrocious and ugly life here below!
Ah! let at least, far from kisses and combats,
Something remain a little on the mountain,
Something of the childish and subtle heart,
Goodness, respect! For, what is it that accompanies us
And truly, when death comes, what remains?
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-beauty-of-women-their-weakness-and-these-pale-hands-paul-verlaine/
