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Small Dead for Laughs

Translation

Go fast, light comber of comets!
The grass in the wind it will be your hair;
Out of your eye socket will shoot corpse
Candles, imprisoned in pitiful heads…

The grave flowers they call Amourettes
Will flourish your earthen laughter…
And the myosotis’, flowers of oubliettes…

Stop acting thick: the coffins of poets
To undertakers are such easy things,
Violin bodies that empty sing…
They will think you dead — bourgeois gits —
Go fast, light comber of comets!

Tristan Corbière (1845–1875)
© Alex Rodallec

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