After Blake’s London
Wouldn’t Blake be lost in the smogged street
Near where the smogged square does lie
When seeing every masked face he’d meet
Masks of gold rush and masks of hie
In every toot of every car
In every party’s call for gold
In every news and in every star
The money-crazed mime he’d behold
How the French perfume’s rich fragrance
Every black limo’s heated seat presses
And the plain-clothed police’s presence
Raises no eyebrow of the maimed masses
But most at drunken meals he’d hear
How youthful women’s loud giggle
Soothes younger virgins’ hurtful fear
For jobs they all happily haggle —
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem