An amber temple, the blue sky, caryatids.
Mysterious woods; a little farther off, the sea…
One caryatid gave a bitter look
And said: It is tiresome to live in these empty times.
The second turned her great cold, greedy eyes
Toward Him, the beloved, the living and proud man
Who, come from Paris, painted with a clear brush
These stones, and this sky, and these limpid distances.
Then the third and the fourth: “How
Shall we draw our hair out of this entablature?
Come! we have held our poses too long!”
And all of them, through the meadows and the flowering paths,
They ran toward lovers, toward Paris;
And the temple crumbled among the rose laurels.
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-women-deserters-charles-cros/
