With what pure vanity do natural things exist,
Their feathers, their fur, their mandibles,
Their necks, their wings with strange patterns,
A leaf serving its tree, and by accident, our eye.
For them an accident is all that matters.
The animals look at us, whether we live or not,
Baudelaire! They eat us or wait for us
To do something; their city becomes a tomb;
We might see right through their bodies: Ah! young
Termites! To classify them is our doom.
We think humans are stiff with vanity;
With hypocrisy they seek religion;
Pity these: helpless hunter, anxious prey,
Lost in a merciless wilderness—
Where we once lost our way.
Vanity, teethy darkness and error!
Vain thoughts and vain ambitions!
The animals die and re-awaken images of hell
In those who smell the night, taste the night
And eat its eyes as well.
All that’s perfect is done in one kind of silence or another,
Yet poetry asks that we speak.
Is poetry not the most ridiculous failure?
Are not all poets weak?