Le Maudit

Women’s tears are but water; The tears of men are blood. He sits alone in the firelight And on either side drifts by Sleep, like a torrent whirling, Profound, wrinkled and dumb. Circuitously, stealthily, Dawn occupies the city; As if the seasons knew of his grief Spring has suddenly changed into snow Disaster and sorrow Have made him their pet; He cannot escape their accursed embraces. For all his dodgings Memory will lacerate him. What good does it do to wander Nights hours through city streets? Only that in poor places He can be with common men And receive their unspoken Instinctive sympathy. What has life done for him? He stands alone in the darkness Like a sentry never relieved, Looking over a barren space, Awaiting the tardy finish.