Liberty

Poem by Charles Cros Collection The Collar of ClawsPeriod 19th centuryPrint

The impure wind from the stables
Comes from west, east, south, north.
We no longer sit at the tables
Of the happy, since we are dead.

The princesses with lovely loins
Offer their sweetest treasures.
But we go off into the sands
Forgotten, despised, strong.

We can look at the moon
Tranquil in the black sky.
And what moral? … none.

I console myself seeing you,
Embracing you tonight
Radiant and dark-haired friend.

Charles Cros

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

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