On the square which is chopped into mean little plots of gra**
The square where all is just so, both the trees and the flowers
All the wheezy townsfolk whom the heat chokes bring
Each Thursday evening, their envious silliness
- The military band, in the middle of the gardens
Swing their shakos in the Waltz of the Fifes:
Round about, near the front rows, the town dandy struts;
- The notary hangs like a charm from his own watch chain
Private incomes in pince-nez point out all false notes:
Great counting-house desks, bloated, drag their stout spouses
Close by whom, like bustling elephant keepers
Walk females whose flounces remind you of sales;
On the green benches, retired grocers' clubs
Poking the sand with their knobbed walking canes
Gravely discuss trade agreements
And then take snuff from silver boxes, and resume: "In short!..."
Spreading over his bench all the fat of his rump
A pale-bu*toned burgher, a Flemish corporation
Savours his Onnaing, whence shreds of tobacco hang loose
You realize, it's smuggled, of course; -
Along the gra** borders yobs laugh in derision;
And, melting to love at the sound of trombones
Very simple, and s**ing at roses, the little foot-soldiers
Fondle the babies to get round their nurses...
- As for me, I follow, dishevelled like a student
Under the green chestnuts, the lively young girls:
Which they know very well, and they turn to me
Laughing, eyes which are full of indiscreet things
I don't say a word: I just keep on looking at
The skin of their white necks embroidered with stray locks:
I go hunting, beneath bodices and thin attire
The divine back below the curve of the shoulders
Soon I've discovered the boot and the stocking...
- I re-create their bodies, burning with fine fevers
They find me absurd, and talk together in low voices...
- And my savage desires fasten on to their lips...