"THE RAGPICKERS' WINE
Often, in the reddish glow of a lamppost
Whose wind batters the flame and torments the glass,
In the heart of an old suburb,
A muddy labyrinth where humanity swarms in stormy ferments,
You see a ragpicker proceed,
Wobbling his head, stumbling and bumping into walls like a poet,
And, without regard for the spies, his subjects,
Giving all his heart to glorious projects.
He pronounces oaths, dictates sublime laws,
Humiliates the wicked, raises the victims, and gets drunk on the splendors
Of his own virtue under the sky suspended like a canopy.
Yes, anguished by family sorrows, broken by fatigue and worn out by years,
Derelict, bent under a mass of refuse
That the enormous Paris vomits confusedly,
They re-emerge, smelling of the cask,
Followed by companions grizzled in battles,
The mustaches hanging like old flags.
The banners, the flowers, and the triumphal arches
Rise before them by solemn magic!
And in the shining and deafening orgy of trumpets,
Of the sun, of cries, and of drums,
They bring back glory to a people drunk with love!
That is how, dazzling Pactolus,
Wine makes gold flow in the midst of vain Humanity;
Through the throat of man it sings
Its feats and reigns by means of gifts
As true kings do.
To extinguish the rancor and lull the indolence of so many old men who die,
Cursed, in silence, God, seized by remorse,
Created sleep; Man added Wine, sacred son of the Sun!
(from The Flowers of Evil)"
Created by d'Araprì