An douristed

THE TOURISTS

 

They make me laugh

---When they don't infuriate me

--They are seeking, they say, tranquillity

To rest from the noise of the cities.

 

Yet, I no longer hear throughout the day

My winged companions.

Nor deep in his crevice

My friend the cricket.

In each corner of the village: a clamor

The racket of stinking cars

The din of transistor radios

Going constantly, spewing into the air

Wild screams of wild beasts

Escaped from their cages

Or the insults of pregnant cats

When they enrage the neighborhood dogs

And set the roosters crowing on their perch...

Oh Tranquility, my friend

You replete with soft life

It's they who disturb you

As the splash of a stone disturbs

The calm surface of the lake.

 

September 1967.