For having loathed their vile melee
The bourgeois had outraged looks for me,
And, sad vagabond on a stranger ground,
I walk like a madman, with tangled hair.
At this bohemian sight of ravaged clothes,
Little painted girls put on ruined airs…
But I walk on, lost in my winged dreams,
Yawning dolefully at the rabid passers-by.
On edge from the heavy hunger
My skeleton too weak to carry—
I fear I must, with regret, prostitute my soul,
And that, one fine day, for the paltry loaf
My gut demands, tired of waiting for the ideal,
To the morning flea market I might sell my genius.
— Albert Cossery