Ballad

                For the inglorious poets of the eons

Hated by people and gods

lords fell from glory, bitterly

like Verlaine they wilt, the only wealth

left to them is the rhyme: rich and silvery.

Hugo with “Punishment” gets drunk in

the fearsome revenge of the Olympians

and I shall write a sorrowful ballad

for the inglorious poets.  

If Poe lived in misfortune

and if Baudelaire lived as if dead

they were graced with immortality

however, no one talks about

the writers of unworthy verse

and Erebus has covered them with a heavy blanket.

But I make this holy offer:

a ballad for the inglorious poets.

Contempt of the world a curse on them

who pale and erect walk along

dedicated to their tragic self-deception

while far away their glory awaits

virginal thought, joyous and deep.

But knowing that all forget them

I nostalgically lament the sorrowful

ballad of the inglorious poets

and some time in a future day

I want them to say: who was the one

who wrote this poor ballad

for the inglorious poets?