by Paul Verlaine
Nature, nothing in you moves me, not the fruitful
Fields, not the roseate echo of the pastorales
Of Sicily, not the grandeur of the dawns,
Not the solemn ruefulness of sunsets.
I laugh at Art, I laugh at Man too, and at songs,
At verse, at Greek temples and the spiraJed towers
Cathedrals spread across the empty sky,
And I see good men and evil with identical eye.
I do not believe in God, I deny and abjure
All thought, and as for Love, that old
Irony, would I might hear of it no more.
Weary of living, fearing to die, like
A lost barque a plaything of the tides,
My soul to dread disaster seems to ride.
Copyright ©:translated by KATE FLORES
Last updated March 05, 2023