Evil

Evil

While the red-stained mouths of machine guns ring
Across the infinite expanse of day;
While red or green, before their posturing king,
The massed battalions break and melt away;

And while a monstrous frenzy runs a course
that makes of a thousand men a smoking pile–
Poor fools!–dead, in summer, in the grass,
On Nature’s breast, who meant these men to smile;

There is a God, who smiles upon us through
The gleam of gold, the incense-laden air,
Who drowses in a cloud of murmured prayer,

And only wakes when weeping mothers bow
Themselves in anguish, wrapped in old black shawls–
And their last small coin into his coffer falls.

Arthur Rimbaud
Schmidt Translation