Classic Poem

In leaden slippers I laugh at the fountain of night, and scorn a solitary swan.
A parasol of glass she spreads and wanders along the lane the cosmos flowering.
Over the cypress tree I image, to myself, a hotel marked with two golf clubs crossed;
And move my camera on the sand of night.

In the street, there shining the spindle-shaped amalgam stairs, the telephone bell is ringing on the desk
In Congo by a barber a parrot is trained and sold at Kabinda
Then by cheerful young sailors her head is replaced by a leaden one:
Just a glimpse of it a watchmaker catches under coconut trees, where is seen a dome tightly closed,

On the table I toss the gloves of antelope, and the gloomy fellows I ignore
A typewriter packed in a raincoat of oilskin is dead and gone on the Le Temps.

She, spreading the parasol of glass, pursues a nightingale, in the space between the Le Temps and the cosmos flowers
Or the new age is born.

Under the hydroplane, " Hamburger Fleugzeugbau Ha 139, " a duck throws into confusion the battle flue
Among the cosmos flowers vibrate machine guns
By the drain a young washerman blows up
O the clearer, the better is the sky over the street
Flash on the concrete a bright wire and shovel.