While the red spittle of the musketry
Whistles all day through the infinite blue sky;
While scarlet or green, near the King who mocks them,
Battalions crumble in mass in the fire;
While a horrifying madness crushes
And makes of a hundred thousand men a smoking heap;
– Poor dead! in summer, in the grass, in your joy,
Nature! O you who made these men in holiness!…
– There is a God, who laughs at the damask cloths
Of altars, at incense, at great golden chalices;
Who in the rocking of hosannas falls asleep,
And wakes, when mothers, huddled
In anguish, and weeping beneath their old black bonnet,
Give him a big penny tied in their handkerchief!
Arthur Rimbaud
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-evil-arthur-rimbaud/
