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Through the opening onto the trench in the chalk
Looking at the enemy wall that seems made of nougat
One sees to left and right the damp deserted corridor flee
Where lies dead a shovel with a frightening face and two regulation eyes that serve to fasten it under the caissons
A rat retreats there in haste while I advance in haste
And the trench goes off crowned with chalk strewn with branches
Like a hollow phantom that puts emptiness wherever it passes whitish
And up above the roof is blue and covers well the gaze closed by a few straight lines
But on this side of the opening is the palace so new and that seems ancient
The ceiling is made of railway ties
Between which there are pieces of chalk and tufts of fir needles
And from time to time debris of chalk falls like pieces of old age
Beside the opening closed by a loose fabric of a kind generally used for packing
There is a hole that serves as a hearth and what burns there is a fire like the soul
So much does it swirl and so inseparable is it from what it devours and fleeting
Iron wires stretch everywhere serving as a bedspring supporting planks
They also form hooks and on them a thousand things are hung
As one does to memory
Blue musettes blue helmets blue neckties blue jackets
Pieces of sky fabrics of the purest memories
And sometimes vague clouds of chalk float in the air
On the plank shine rocket detonators golden jewels with enameled heads
Black white red
Tightrope walkers waiting their turn to pass over the trajectories
And make a slender and elegant ornament for this underground dwelling
Adorned with six beds placed in a horseshoeSix beds covered with rich blue cloaks
Above the palace there is a high tumulus of chalk
And sheets of corrugated iron
Frozen river of this ideal domain
But deprived of water for here only the fire sprung from melinite rolls
The park of fulminate flowers springs from the slanted holes
Heap of bells with the gentle sounds of gleaming shell casings
Elegant firs small as in a Japanese landscape
The palace is sometimes lit by a candle whose flame is as tiny as a mouse
O tiny palace as if you were seen through the large end of a spyglass
Little palace where everything is muffled
Little palace where everything is new nothing nothing ancient
And where everything is precious where everyone is dressed like a king
A saddle is in a corner straddling a crate
A newspaper of the day lies on the ground
And yet everything seems old in this new dwelling
So much so that one understands that the love of the antique
The taste for antique junk
Came to men as early as the time of caves
Everything there was so precious and so new
Everything there is so precious and so new
That a thing more ancient or that has already been used appears thereMore precious
Than what one has at hand
In this underground palace dug in the chalk so white and so new
And two new steps
They are not two weeks old
Are so old and so worn in this palace that seems antique without imitating the antique
That one sees that what is simplest newest is what is
Closest to what is called antique beauty
And what is overloaded with ornaments
Needs to age to have the beauty one calls antique
And which is the nobility the strength the ardor the soul the wear
Of what is new and that serves
Especially if that is simple simple
As simple as the little palace of thunder
Guillaume Apollinaire
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-glimmers-of-gunfire-the-palace-of-thunder-guillaume-apollinaire/