I insist on vegetating here
In motheaten granduer. Haven't I plotted
Like a madman to get here? Well then.
These free days, these side-streets,
Mouldy or shiny, with their octoroon light:
Also, I have grudges, enemies, a religion,
Politics, a new morality - everything!
Kept awake by alcohol and coffee,
Inside her oriental dressing-gown of dust
My soul is always thinking things over, thoroughly.
No wonder my life has grandeur, depth, and crust.
Ah, to desire a certain way of life,
And then to gain it!
What a mockery, what absolute misery,
Dressing-gown hours the tint of alcohol or coffee.
Am I an imbecile of the first water after all?
Yes, I think I can claim - now that all this grandeur,
Depth, and crust is stacked around me - that I am.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem