A Clown

By Jacques Roubaud
Translated by Claire Nashar.

I knew him, you see, infinite jester,

rich with the most astonishing derisions.

Thousands of times he carried me on his back

Laughing laughter from his ten times red lips.

Where are your sarcastic remarks now? your capers?

your somersaults? your masks? your wisecracks?

your jokes, your speeches, effervescent flashes

that made children cry from merriment?

Look at him mocking his own mockeries,

his gaping jaw fixed in a grimace,

now that the wind snickers between his hollow

cheeks. His wig is rotten, time waters down

his make-up drowned in the perfidious waters of death.

Do you see him Horatio? alas, poor Yorick