Everything had the air of a mosaic: animals walked with feet toward the sky
except the donkey, whose blazoned white front displayed words which were
written but still ever changing. The turret was an opera glass; there were
hanging tapestries adorned with black cows, and the little princess too in
a black robe, and one couldn’t tell whether her gown had green suns or
whether one was seeing it through the holes and tatters.
Poem by Max Jacob, translated by Alastair Johnston
Alastair Johnston is a printer and author living in Berkeley, California. He is trying to realize Oliver Cromwell’s dictum: a man never rises so high as when he doesn’t know where he is going. www.poltroonpress.com