The sun descends the same as always, 
a horizon brushed with rosy cream. 
The streets lie open as empty beer cans, 
they sing the same song unbidden. 
Why should the cities be vanquished, 
why hurl stones and ravage shrines, 
when scorn, whispers and laughter will suffice. 
The stairs rise like pine forests.

St. Bartholomew's Night may last for fifteen minutes, 
bloodless - only courage corrodes slowly. 
I watch the crowd as it moves upwards. 
So many faces, so many cheeks, 
such hope, anticipation, hands clasped, 
in the irises of convex eyes 
light crisscrosses shadows.

Translated by Clare Cavanagh