Châtiment de l'Orgueil

I have begun to realize that I have associated the glassy memories of early summer, ie drinking way too much, translating for hours on end, and languishing in the sunshine with the feelings I had when first we collided. I have almost completely changed my routine since that night about two weeks ago. I do a lot of staring, a lot of avoiding. Things are hard. All my brothers in arms have lost their glow and have been moping around as well. But things will get better, better.

The next poem is about pride, and is one of the least rhythmic translations I have done as of yet. I may fix it in the future but I am not quite feeling it at the moment.

Punishment of Pride
In these marvelous times where Theology
With the best of sap and energy,
One said that one day a doctor of greatest greatness,
—After having compelled indifferent hearts;
Having stirred in their dark depths;
After having cleared to celestial splendors
Curious paths unknown to himself,
Which perhaps pure Spirits alone had come to,—
Like a man who had climbed too high, taken with panic,
He cried, transported with a satanic pride:
“Jesus, little Jesus! I have pushed you very high!
But if I had wanted to attack you through the defect
In the armor, your shame would equal your glory,
And you would be no more than a hollow fetus!”

Immediately his reason went from him.
The shard of the sun veiled itself with crepe
All chaos rolled into that intellect,
Temple once living, full of order and opulence,
Under the ceiling where so much pomp had gleamed.
Silence and night installed themselves in it,
Like in a cave whose clef is lost.
From then on he was like the beasts of the street,
And, when he went along seeing nothing, to traverse
The fields without distinguishing the summers from the winters,
Filthy, useless and ugly like a used-up thing,
He was made by the children the joke and the laughing-stock.

Châtiment de l'Orgueil
En ces temps merveilleux où la Théologie
Fleurit avec le plus de sève et d'énergie,
On raconte qu'un jour un docteur des plus grands,
— Après avoir forcé les coeurs indifférents;
Les avoir remués dans leurs profondeurs noires;
Après avoir franchi vers les célestes gloires
Des chemins singuliers à lui-même inconnus,
Où les purs Esprits seuls peut-être étaient venus, —
Comme un homme monté trop haut, pris de panique,
S'écria, transporté d'un orgueil satanique:
«Jésus, petit Jésus! je t'ai poussé bien haut!
Mais, si j'avais voulu t'attaquer au défaut
De l'armure, ta honte égalerait ta gloire,
Et tu ne serais plus qu'un foetus dérisoire!»

Immédiatement sa raison s'en alla.
L'éclat de ce soleil d'un crêpe se voila
Tout le chaos roula dans cette intelligence,
Temple autrefois vivant, plein d'ordre et d'opulence,
Sous les plafonds duquel tant de pompe avait lui.
Le silence et la nuit s'installèrent en lui,
Comme dans un caveau dont la clef est perdue.
Dès lors il fut semblable aux bêtes de la rue,
Et, quand il s'en allait sans rien voir, à travers
Les champs, sans distinguer les étés des hivers,
Sale, inutile et laid comme une chose usée,
Il faisait des enfants la joie et la risée.

I don't miss him. I just miss the feeling. Emo emo emo.