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In our cold age, people no longer make love.
Far from the lulling woods and far from naked women
The poor go searching for those unknown sums
That bankers hide, anxious night and day.
How good was the smell of bread coming out of the oven,
How beautiful in the west was the golden glow of the clouds,
When the autumn mists had already come,
Just as the oxen, weary from plowing, were led home!
Aspirations were not stifled,
And in the happy town one saw trophies,
One heard victory sounding on the drum.
One dreamed of gold, of azure, of festivals at court,
And of Prince Charming, godson of the good fairies.
In our cold age, people no longer make love!
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-maussaderie-charles-cros/