Ah! nom de Dieu! qu’ont donc crié ces entrecôtes -Guillaume Apollinaire
Guillaume Apollinaire, an apple core
am I. Tell me, is this thing you have done,
your plucking of my tree away from me,
your violent “mastications,” as you call
them, is this thing so good that you could whistle
through my pulp stuck in your terrible teeth?
that you could smile, dripping juice, as youthful
bodies, riper apples than I, flit past?
Who, my friend, who could have suggested this?
Oh Holy Christ! My tree! My tree! My God!
To think she made me warm! To think! My God!
To think. That sunlight was and is no more
my food. That now, away from her, it dries
me out, prolongs the decomposing of
this core I have become. What bitter love
we had together. Oh what bitter love
we had…perhaps if I had given more…
But no. Christ nailed! The fault is yours Guillaume.
‘Twas you who ripped her branch away from me
You were the one who carved me into what
I am today and flung me in this field
Where now I have no purpose but to rot.