On the parched path,
I have seen the good lizard
(the drop of crocodile)
meditating.
In its green coat
an abbot of the devil,
his mood well-mannered
and his collar stiff,
he has the dull air
of an old professor.
Those faded eyes
of a failed artist,
how they watch the evening
dismayed!
Is this your passage
in the twilight, my friend?
Use a cane, you are now
very old, Mister Lizard,
and those children in the village
may give you quite a shock.
What do you seek on the path,
blind philosopher,
if the wavering phantom
of the withering evening
has broken the horizon?
Do you seek the blue alms
of the fading sky?
A penny of a star?
Or maybe
you read the book
of Lamartine, and you savor
the plateresque trills
of the birds?
(You gaze on the setting sun
and your eyes glitter,
oh, dragon of the frogs!
with a human brilliance.
Those gondolas without oars
ideas, cross
the gloomy sea
of your burnt eyes.)
Perhaps you pursue
the lovely lady lizard
green as the wheatfields
of May,
like the long strands
of the sleeping spring,
that scorned you, and after,
left you to your field?
Oh, sweet idyll broken
upon the cool sedge!
But to live! what devilry!
I have been simpathetic.
The motto "I oppose
the serpent" triumphs
in the grand double chin
of the Christian archbishop
Already the sun is dissolving
into the cup of the mountain,
and the road is muddled
the flocks
It is the hour to march,
leave the narrow path
and do not continue
meditating.
From this place they will get
to look at the stars
when they eat you without haste
those worms.
Go back to your home
below the town of crickets!
Good night, my friend
Mr. Lizard!
Already the field is without people,
the mountains dull
and the road deserted;
Only from time to time
sings a cuckoo in the shade
of the poplars.
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