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At last, I
have the right to greet those beings that I do not
know
They wander before me,
strangers in the distance
There hopes no less felt
than mine
I sing neither of this world
nor of other stars
I sing of the possibility
that is my life beyond this world
beyond those stars
I sing to praise the joy of
roaming, and the pleasure of dying
while
wondering free.
The 21st of May
1913
Ferryman of the dead and
dead buzzing Merry-ans
Countless flies fanning a splendour
When a man without eyes,
without nose and without ears
Turned from Sébasto into
He was young, this man, with
dark hair and cheeks the colour of
strawberries
Man Ah! Ariane
He was playing the flute,
his footsteps servant to the music’s lead
He stopped at the corner of
Playing the tune that I sing
and dream
Women lingered by his side
They came from every
direction
When suddenly, the bells of
Saint-Marie
echoed
throughout
The musician stopped and
drank from the fountain
At the corner of
Then the bells were still
The stranger took up his
flute
Retracing his steps until
A troupe of women enthralled
by his song
Abandoned their homes
Filing down cross-roads eyes
mad
Hands stretched toward this
melodious thief
He continued indifferent
playing his tune
He continued cruelly
Next in another place
When does the train leave
for
In that moment
The pigeons of Maluka confecting nutmeg droppings
At the same time
Catholic Mission of Bôma what have you done with the sculpture
In another place
She crosses a bridge
connecting
into Pützchen
That very moment
A young woman in love with
the mayor
In another neighbourhood
A poet vies with perfume
labels
In short oh laughter you
have taken little from
men
And you have extracted the
barest of fat from their
misery
But we who are dying to live
far from each other
Extend our arms and upon
these rails rolls a long freight
train
You were crying sit close to
me on a horse-drawn coach
And now
You look like me you look
like me alas
We look like each other as
did the architecture of the
century before
Its high chimneys and towers
exactly the same
We are travelling higher now
no longer touching the
earth
And all the while the world
was living and changing
The long procession of women
like a day without bread
Following the happy musician
down
Processions oh processions
When long ago the king left
When the ambassador arrived
in
When the feeble Suger rushed toward the
When the riot faded around
Saint-Merry
Processions oh processions
Women overflowed so many
they were
Into every single
neighbouring street
And rushed with the force of
a bullet
To follow the musician
Ah! Ariane
and you Pâquette and you Amine
And you Mia and you Simone
and you Mavise
And you Colette and you the
beautiful Genviève
On they went trembling and
vain
And their light nimble footsteps
moved to the
cadence
Of pastoral music which
guided
Their hungry ears
The stranger lingered for a
moment beside a house
for sale
Abandoned house
With broken windows
A place from the sixteenth
century
The courtyard a garage for
delivery trucks
It is here the musician
entered
His waning tune became
languid
The women followed him into
the house
All entered enthralled
All entered without looking
behind
Not regretting what they had
left behind
Not regretting day life
memory
Soon nobody stood on
Just myself and a priest
from Saint-Merry
We entered the abandoned
house
But no one was there
Here is the night
At Saint-Merry it is Angelus
that rings
Processions oh processions
When long ago the king
returned from
There came a troupe of
hat-makers
There came banana sellers
There came soldiers of the
republican guard
Oh night
Flock of languid female eyes
Oh night
You my pain and my vain
expectation
I hear the
fading sound of a distant flute
Translated by Emma Carmody
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The journal is affiliated with the
Comparative Literature Department at The Graduate Center of the City University
of New York. It is published with the support of the Doctoral Student Council.
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