translated from Tristan Corbière
A song moves through the quiet night airless.
The moon in her metallic coat of clearness.
And the carved-out hills upon horizons, sombre
like an echo of a song, buried still
Alive, underneath a bank, beside the hill
where silence stirs the shadows nearer.
A toad! Why, what fear be over
Me? I notice it- my loyal soldier
The wet, wingless poet of the mire.
Nightingale of the dirt; agh! the Horror!
I hear it sing ‘The Horror! Why the Horror?’
Look, his eye, it glimmers like a mirror…
No! he hides alone, under a cold, worn bolder…
…Goodnight; that toad down there you see,
is me.
Translated by K.J. McGuigan
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