Wooden Horses, Poem by Paul Verlaine

Turn, turn, good wooden horses,
Turn a hundred turns, turn a thousand turns,
Turn often and turn always,
Turn, turn to the sound of the oboes.

The big soldier, the biggest maid
Are on your backs as in their room,
For on this day at the Bois de la Cambre
The masters are both there in person.

Turn, turn, horses of their heart,
While around all your tournaments
Winks the eye of the sly swindler,
Turn to the sound of the conquering piston.

It’s ravishing how it makes you drunk
To go like this in this silly circus:
Good in the belly and bad in the head,
Evil in masses and good in crowds.

Turn, turn without any need
Ever to use any spurs
To command your round gallops,
Turn, turn, without hope of hay

And hurry, horses of their soul:
Already here is the falling night
That will reunite pigeon and dove
Far from the fair and far from madame.

Turn, turn! the velvet sky
With golden stars slowly clothes itself.
Here depart the lover and the beloved.
Turn to the joyful sound of the drums!

Paul Verlaine

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-wooden-horses-paul-verlaine/