Instead of a translation: On Madame B. and the possibilities of Dejima Poem by Ann Cotten

Trade will always be the same, but you can always leave.
Hercules & Atlas

Bleed the Lily gently, palpitate the Thorny Rose,
The Tulip dreams, the sturdy one, upon her sweetened rows.
The wind has clattered all our lives, but recently it rose
And we will keep on riding it as we are in its throes.

O whereabouts, o warehouses, o windowing she goes.
As long as there is more of her, she's never as she poses,
so prey to you and me, and yet, as every petal shows,
she knows the names of all the world, but ever is the Rose.

And where she ends, the stuff begins to curl and Manna stows
away the wisdom of the feast, and white man grows and grows.
She started up with porcelain, went on to panty hose
She wears fake furs and fibres now, but ever is the Rose.

And if you're seeking energy, see panels, rows on rows!
As, venting pent-up energy, the panels raise their noses
to debutate the adjectives of petulance in proses
that lubricate the fortunate they reinstate, but close
the doors and hit the press in places no press even knows!

The Rose was in the internet, surrounded by verbose
Americans who praised her petals as so many shows.
And, sinking swiftly faster in the water-depth, she chose
to drown. Her petals surfaced. Heavy, nevermore she rose.