The Goal, Poem by Charles Cros

To Henri Ghys.

Along the poplars I walk, forehead bare,
Chest to the wind, eyes whipped by the rain.
I move on haggard toward the unknown goal.

Spring has flowers whose scent wearies me,
Summer promises, autumn offers its fruits, of aspects
Irritating; white winter, even, is soiled with soot.

May the crows, piercing my belly with their beaks,
Eat my liver, where so many mad rages are,
May the air and the sun whiten my dry bones,

And, above all, may the wind carry away my words!

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-the-goal-charles-cros/