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Group sculpted by…
Pygmalion, sculptor, has worked the stone
So well that the ideal Galatea appears
He put all his heart into this secret effort
All his moved soul and all his light.
There she is, white in the solitary studio,
Finished in eyes, finished in loins, and one would believe
That the delicate foot leaves the pedestal, ready
To run into life. And even the eyelid
Has moved. It is not an illusion…
The marble becomes flesh! Why, Pygmalion,
Did you make these breasts and these shoulders so charming?
She lives. Crushed under her dainty hand
You suffer our sorrows of yesterday and tomorrow:
The thorn of the rose and the snow of the poles.
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-galatee-et-pygmalion-charles-cros/