Then

The city boils ruled by the red chimera,
But ancestor of mine preoccupied
Not with the flaming leaves, but with the ride
Through wild Brumaire outbursts. Forget the era

Of uncontrolled events, of morbid heat
Seizing the mob, igniting celebration
On clanging guillotine, their exhalation
When someone's head rolls to the gapers' feet.

Marked cards. And he's into a heated trance,
So therefore speeds away from all this clamor.
His life an absolutely diff'rent drama,
His goal to make the game of better chance.

O, heady rustle of cards and lisp of chips!
While time flies waving tiny flames of candles,
The night is loss, although it seemed being endless,
A part of life, - who counts, who cares, who keeps'¦

And in the morning, rising from the table,
The night and game, their vision weak and bleary,
Step out for coffee to the cafeteria
For visitors still sleepy and unstable.

Look, there, behind that table, a glass of cherry
And several already empty cups,
That lady sits. She flashed in decks. A berry,
A flower marvelous. The queen of clubs.


Now

Another season and another Paris.
Cards marked and the same homes, - monogamy.
High heaven unconditionally marries
My ancestor and me. Today it's me.

Oh, buildings passed! Their memory still keeps
The Bourbons' signs. Their royal crown and blazon
Don't wish to cease. Le fleur-de-lis, still brazen,
Holds all the city in its solemn grip.

Around me Paris speeds, and speaks, and rings
With all her avenues, boulevards, and places,
While I think: vulnerable are the kings
Beaten by history and by the aces.

My soul, a flying bird, sees from above
Her blocks like decks of cards. One chip is moving, -
It's me possessed by all-intransient love,
Sharp practice, and the tricks of cheat-improving.

So here's the building! Let its entrance greet
My coming with the sign as a reminder
Of idle history, no worse, no kinder
To what one could be when his life's complete.

'¦The night has passed, an easy thing to thieve.
Still in my ears with cards and money rustling.
I'm on the street. The early morning hustling
To learn about what fate keeps up its sleeve.

A loser, lonely petty bourgeois,
Left-hander spending all my life unrightly.
The sun is on the rise, it's shining brightly,
While I am roaming by Le Rive Droit.

My downs the upper hand to all my ups'¦
The Rue Marbeuf, the plane-trees mere and modest'¦
Immersed in dreams, in games, I've hardly noticed
That run into a ghost. The queen of clubs.

Want to comment on this Poetry? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Poetry and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...