Above the dazed cattle of the human beings
The wild manes of the beggars of blue
Bounced their feet in the light on our paths

A black wind on their march spread for banners
Flogging it from cold even in the flesh
As it also ploughed there out of irritable ruts

Always with the hope of meeting the sea
They traveled without bread, without sticks, and without urns
Biting into the golden lemon of the bitter ideal

Most of them grumbled in the night parades
Getting drunk on the happiness of seeing blood flow
O Death, the only kiss on their taciturn mouths!

Their defeat, it is by a very powerful angel
Standing on the horizon with its naked steel
A crimson cold in the grateful breast

They suck the pain as they sucked the dream
And when they go giving rhythm to sensual tears
The people kneel down and their mother gets up

They are consoled, safe and majestic
But drag in their steps a hundred brothers at whom we scoff
Derisory martyrs of tortuous chance

The same salt of tears eats away their sweet cheek
They eat the ashes with the same love
But fate is vulgar or comic as it turns

They could incite so like a drum
The slavish pity of races with dull voices
Equal to Prometheus whom a vulture overlooks

No, vile and frequenting deserts with no water
They roam under the whip of a furious monarch
The Jinx, whose incredible laughter prostrates them

Lovers, he jumped in behind to three, willing to share
Then the enduring torrent plunges you in a puddle
And leaves a muddy block of the white swimming couple

Thanks to him, if the one blows its bizarre trombone
From children who will twist us into stubborn laughter
Who, with a fist in their ass, will mimic the brass band

Thanks to him, if the one adorns a faded breast just in time
With a rose who rekindles him ready to marry
With the slobber gleaming on its damned bouquet

And this dwarfish skeleton, wearing a feather
And kicked, the armpit of which has for true hairs of verses
For them is the infinity of the vast bitterness

Upset, they are not going to provoke the pervert
Their creaking rapier follows the moonbeam
Which snows on his carcass and which passes through

Saddened without the pride which crowns misfortune
And sad to avenge the bones of knocks of beak
They covet hatred, instead of resentment

They are the fun of the wipers of viols
Of the kids, the whores and the old trash
Of the tatters dancing when the pitcher is dry

The poets good for alms or revenge
Know the evil of these erased gods
They call them boring and without intelligence

They can run away having enough of each exploit
Like a virgin horse, foams of storms
Rather than to leave in an armored gallop

We shall get drunk on incense the conqueror of the feast
But them, why not put on these wandering players
In scarlet rags yelling that one stops!

When facing them spat out scorn
Useless and the beard with low words asking the thunder
These heroes were exasperated by playful weaknesses

They’re going to hang themselves from the streetlamps like figures of fun

11/11/08