(a subterranean market in Arles)
There are the stations of the scourge
the pillar where the spirit spurts
The cathedral embedded in the mine
has been silent now for some time
The cobblestones are always damp
From the place where stalagmites stand
There the cockroach Orson Welles
scrambling over a hill of shells
There the bazaar of shiny foil
lamps sputtering their last drops of oil
Dank as the dungeon and damp as a cave
No swinging ball of lead can raze
There the architect led on a leash
Drawn into darkness like a beast
There the hippodrome’s flaking hoar
and sawdust and horse piss and hair
There is your empire sunken and gone
It ripples like a pebble in your palm
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This is pretty damned close to poetic perfection