The cicadas, the cicadas are singing, Rameses.
The hemlock, Socrates, pour me my just amount.
Let the others apply to their Central Committees.
No, my brother Reason, I’m the soul, and I can’t.
The buildings, my idol! Look at the buildings!
Are we really insects, with our shriveled wings
who throw down our bodies on the bunks of the hive
and drape our rags on the chairs they provide us with?
Discover her, Columbus, discover her anew.
Your descendants have grown tired of their own shadow.
What way lies open now to the stumbling Jew?
What road will tell that tired remnant where he must go?
My friend, my mutant, pliable, unstiffened,
my crazy colleague, it will come to an end.
There’s a limit to vomiting and diarrhea.
So here they are, have a good look. We’ve made it, my dear.
Translated by Derek Walcott