It's the sower. He is standing tall and stout
In the sunset's rays which are like flowing gold;
Before his feet are the fields of the fatherland
Spreading their unlimited nakedness.
His deep apron, full of wheat seeds like stars
Is wholly full. The thirsty ploughs of last year
Now are waiting for his wide fist, and that fist
Is opening upon the fields like a dawn.
Sower, sow in the name of your home's table,
Let the movement of your arms be unbounded;
Tomorrow those wheat seeds you've thrown, like blessings,
Will be pouring on heads of your grandchildren.
Sower, sow in the name of the hungry poor
Never let your palm be half-full from your apron;
A poor today in the temple's lantern put
The last oil for your harvest of tomorrow.
Sower, sow in the name of Lord's sacrament,
Let luminous seeds overflow your fingers;
Tomorrow in each and every milky plant
A portion of Jesus's body will ripen.
Sow and sow yet even beyond the border,
Sow like the stars and also sow like the waves.
Don't worry if birds plunder all your seeds,
Tomorrow God will in their place sow you pearls.
Fill the furrows, let fertile ploughs overflow,
Let golden lights flow out of soil's bosom.
As the day turns to evening your arm's shadow
Stretches long to the starry horizons.
To the starving people
“There is famine; bread, bread !”
Who is sighing?
On the threshold of my cottage, who is sighing?
My love has gone out, with the flame in my fireplace.
Ashes within me, ashes around me; oh, of what use is it
To sow tears on ashes?
I have nothing, nothing! To-day, with my last
Small coin I bought poison;
I shall mix poison within me.
Come to-morrow to the graveyard, thou Hungry One,
Through the storm, early, when around the village
Wolves are still wandering.
Come to-morrow! As bread, from my grave
I will throw into that bag of thine
My poet’s heart.
My poet’s heart shall be thy blood, the blood of thy orphans,
As long as thy grief lives.
Come to-morrow to the graveyard, O thou Hungry One!
Here the book
Here the book which I promised…
There if you find the dream bottomless of the secular life,
and the priestesses of Bacchus to the figure of pink dancing
on the hills under the moon,
And of the Gods who want the heart of Homère still bleeding
like Messaline with the eyes of fire, instead of a shroud
a tunic of crimson throws on the bodies of the dead knights of love.
There if you find nights of Pompeï,
the grenade of the eruptions matured over the Peak
and this century wounded like Jesus,
taken childbirth of a dawn news
If you find hearts extinguished like lamps,
the combat of iron and the man, and,
revealed, the contemptible crime born from the very envieux mud
of the blood of the pure pinks, Knows well, my friend,
that my song told the pains of the pleasure
and the pleasures of the pain the chalice of the heart
when it fills up wine sees this one moulting in blood of God.
Think that no one, never,
could not hold of the fist this support of my Pégase
whose glance carries a double sun, -
and that the funeral cawing of the corbels
could not slice its unbounded dash.
Think that always the critic is one-eyed
and that the wise moralist is oenuque. the heavy heart of a life,
with the exact balance which will be able to weigh it
vis-a-vis with all the Universe?
Only will be able to enjoy divine food of the Dream,
that which will be enivra of incense, of stinks.
That one only is man that all kneads grace and of abjection,
that one only, crowned tears.
The Working Girl
BENEATH my window, as each morning dawns,
You like a wandering ghost go flitting by,
And on your beauteous virgin head there fall
Tears from my rose vine, leafless now and dry.
I hear your footsteps in the silent street,
And the awakened dog that barks at you;
Or in my sleep I hear the constant cough
That racks your lovely bosom through and through.
I think that you are hungry, robbed of sleep,
Your body shivering in the breezes cold,
And on your tresses, O my sister! Lies
The frost, like jewels, glittering to behold.
Or else, I think, your shoes are torn and rent;
The water from the street is oozing through;
Or impudently, as you pass along,
Some scoundrel Turk is whistling after you.
I think that ill at home your mother lies,
And that the oil which fed the lamp is dry,
And to the factory you go, to toil
For light and life. I think of it, and sigh!
I think of it, and madly then I wish
I might come down, my pallid sister dear,
Come down to you, to kiss your thin, frail hand,
And whisper low, “I love you!” in your ear.
I love your sorrow, which is mine as well—
My grief of griefs, all other woes above;
I love your shattered breast, where still your love
Sings on and on—a skylark wild with love.
Pale girl, I long to press you to my heart
Like some poor banished dove, forlorn and lone—
Give you my strength, my prizes won from fame,
And my untarnished name to be your own.
Fain would I be your honor’s veil and screen,
My breast a shield for your defenceless breast.
If I could guard, with arms as granite strong,
Your sex and your grave beauty, I were blest!
Fain would I give you all that I have won
In life’s hard struggle, all I have of good—
Crown you with roses of my victory,
Roses that wear the color of my blood;
Only that never more, my sister dear,
You should be pale and hungry, coughing sore,
And that your mother’s lamp should not go out,
And to the factory you should go no more!
The Aged Crane
On the bank of the river, in the row of cranes,
That one drooped its head,
Put its beak under its wing, and with itsaged
Dim pupils, awaited
Its last black moment.
When its comrades wished to depart,
It could not join them in their flight.
Scarcely could it open its eyes and watch in the air
The path of the little flock that went along
Calling down to those under the roofs
The tidings, the greetings and the tears
Entrusted to them by the exile.
Ah, the poor bird! In the bleak embrace
Of that cold autumnal silence, it is dying.
It is vain to dream any more
Of a distant spring, of cool currents of air
Under strong and soaring wings,
Or of passing through cool brooks
With naked feet, of dipping its long neck
Amongst the green reeds;
It is vain to dream any more!
The wings of the Armenian crane
Are tired of traveling. It was true
To its heart-depressing calling;
It has transported so many tears!
How many young wives have put among its soft feathers
Their hearts, ardently beating!
How many separated mothers and sons
Have loaded its wings with kisses!
Now, with a tremor on its dying day,
It shakes from its shoulders
The vast sorrow of an exiled race.
The vows committed to it, the hidden sighs
Of a betrothed bride who saw at length
Her last rose wither unkissed;
A mother’s sad blessing;
Loves, desires, longings,
It shakes at last from its shoulders.
And on the misty river-bank
Its weary wings, spread for the last time,
Point straight toward
The Armenian hills, the half-ruined villages.
With the voice of its dying day
It curses immigration,
And falls, in silence, upon the coarse sand of the river bank.
It chooses its grave,
And, thrusting its purple beak
Under a rock, the dwelling-place of a lizard,
Stretching out its curving neck .
Among the songs of the waves,
With a noble tremor it expires!
A serpent there, which had watched that death-agony
Silently for a long time with staring pupils,
Crawls up from the river-bank,
And, to revenge a grudge of olden days,
With an evil and swift spring
Coils around its dead neck.