The Death of Artists

How many times do I have to shake my bells

and kiss your lowly brow, dreary caricature?

To hit the mystic target,

how many times, my quiver, must I lose my javelin?

We will wear out our souls in subtle plots

and we will demolish many a heavy framework

before we contemplate the great Creature

whose infernal desire makes us sob!

Some have never known their Idol,

and these accursed, insulted sculptors,

hammering on their breasts and brows,

have only one hope, strange and dark Capital!

It is that Death, hovering like a new sun,

will make the flowers in their minds to bloom!