Lord, I'm in the neighborhood of good thieves,
Vagabonds, of bare-feet, receivers of stolen goods.
I think the two thieves who were with you to the gallows,
I know you deign to smile upon their misfortune.
Lord, one would like a rope with a knot at the end,
But it is not for free, rope, it costs twenty cents.
He reasoned like a philosopher, that old scoundrel.
I gave him opium for him to go faster in paradise.
I also think the street musicians, the violinist
blind, the penguin who turns the barrel organ,
A singer in a straw hat with pink paper;
I know they are the ones who sing throughout eternity.
Lord, let them alms, other than the glow of gas lamps,
Lord, let them alms big money down here.
Lord, when you died, the curtain was torn,
What we saw behind, nobody said it.
The street is in the night like a tear
Full of gold and blood, fire and peelings. Those
you from the temple with your whip, flog
passers of a handful of misdeeds.
L'Etoile, which disappeared when the tabernacle,
Burns on the walls in the harsh light shows.
Lord, the Bank is illuminated as a safe,
Where did the coagulated blood of your death.
The streets are deserted and become darker.
I reel like a drunken man on the sidewalk.
I'm afraid of large swathes of shade houses project.
I'm afraid. Someone is following me. I dare not turn his head. A
not limping jumps closer and closer.
I'm afraid. I have vertigo. And I stopped on purpose. A fearful
looked at me funny
Acute and spent, bad like a dagger.
Lord, nothing has changed since you no longer king.
Blaise Cendrars, The Easter New York
0 comments:
Post a Comment