From the eternal blue the serene irony
Devastates, indolently lovely like the flowers
Across a barren desert of Pain,
The powerless poet who curses his genius.

Shifty, with closed eyes, I feel it watching me
With the intensity of an appalling remorse --
My empty soul. Where to flee? And what haggard night
Throws, fragments, throws scorn on this distressing contempt?

Fogs, arise! Pour your monotonous ashes
Into long rags of mists in the sky
Which will flood the pale swamp of the autumns
And build a great silent ceiling!

And you, fishing in pools of Lethe and collecting
The mud and the weak reeds coming in to you
Dear Tedium, blocking with an untiring hand
The great blue holes which the birds maliciously made.

Again! Let the sad chimneys smoke without resting
And let a wandering prison of soot
Extinguish by the horror of its black streaks
The sun dying, yellowish, on the horizon!

“The sky died.” Towards you, I come near! Give, o matter,
Forgetfulness of the cruel Ideal and of the Sin
To this martyr who comes to share the litter
Where the happy cattle of men are lying

Because I want, because finally my brain, emptied
Like the jar of rouge lying at the foot of a wall
Has no more art to rig out the sobbing idea
Sorrowfully yawning toward a dark demise…

In vain! The Blue triumphs, and I hear it in
The bells singing. My soul, it becomes a voice
To frighten us more with its nasty victory,
And from the living metal comes a blue angelus!

It rolls through ancient fogs and crosses
Your native agony like a sure sword;
Where to flee in this useless and perverse revolt?
I am haunted. The Blue! The Blue! The Blue! The Blue!

05/02/2008