Hotels, Poem by Guillaume Apollinaire

The room is widowed
Each for himself
New presence
We pay by the month

The landlord doubts
Will they pay
I turn on the road
Like a spinning top

The noise of cabs
My ugly neighbor
Smoking an acrid
English tobacco

O La Vallière
Who limps and laughs
At my prayers
Night table

And all together
In this hotel
Know the tongue
As at Babel

Let us close our Doors
Double-locked
Each brings
His only love

Guillaume Apollinaire

Translation generated by Poésies 123 with assistance from the deepseek-chat artificial-intelligence model.

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