Outside that house, I stood like a dog;
The window was mysterious, with its big, dull pane
Where the mud pastes are thrown by dark, alkaline skies
That glide slowly along, keeping close to the ground.
- But for the raging disgust which shook me
So that my throat was scratched by her acid
(Whose taste is the true Latin of culture) -
I could have lived the life of these roads.
That piece of filthy laurel moves up and down,
And then the dead rose-leaves with their spat-on look
Where the sour carbon lies...under
The sash of the window comes the smell of stewing innards,
With the freshly washed lavatory - I know where
The old linoleum has its platinum wet patches
And the disinfectant dries off in whiffs.
Hellish, abominable house where I have been young!
With your insane furnishings - above all
The backs of dressing-tables where the dredged wood
Faces the street, raw. And the window
With its servant-maid's mystery, which contains nothing,
Where I bowed over the ruled-up music books
With their vitreous pencilling, and piano keys
That touched water. How forlornly my strong, destructive head
Eats again the reek of the sash window.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem