I am the Empire at the end of its decadence Watching the tall, fair Barbarians pass, Meanwhile, I compose idle acrostics In a golden style where the sun's languors dance. Intense boredom sickens a soul alone. Over there, I hear, a long bloody battle rages. Feeble with too slow desire, there is no power, There is no will to make this existence flower. There is no will, no power even to die a little. Ah, all is drunk, Bathyllus-do you laugh still? All, all is drunk, all eaten! No more to tell. Nothing but a stupid poem to throw on the fire, Nothing but a faithless slave to neglect you, Nothing but a nameless boredom to afflict you. |