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Tristan Corbière

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Pierrot, be Hanged (Pierrot pendu)

     I
Woman is a pill, a lily
Not to be gilded any more,
Your lyre, an implement that’s silly
(. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . )

     II
The comedy’s over, a has-been,
Off to the Morgue with your Loves! such Likes!
Let’s halt it, the worn-out machine
Of our days, when twelve o’clock strikes.

     III
Just leave a talisman, a braid
Of hemp for that sweetheart of yours.
She was the gallery and stayed
To admire the show, for all its flaws.

     IV
It’ll be a comfort, albeit Dutch
– A last slip-knot in the halter –
In a fortnight’s time it will touch
A stiff-collar whose love won’t falter.

      V
Let her trumpet it, the strumpet:
It’s chaste too. Let her rattle, she’s tight
In the throat, too stingy to hump it;
And let her walk the streets at night.

Translated by Christopher Pilling

Page(s) 125-126

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