Atop the Walls of Paris, At Nightfall

by Brett Rutherford
 

Adapted/translated from Victor Hugo, l'Annee Terrible
 

West sky was pale, the East pitch-black
as if some bone-house arm reached up
to raise a catafalque
against the colonnades of night,
and on the firmament two shrouds unfolded.
Sunset closed in like a prison.
The dismal plaint of a solitary bird
shrilled out from frostbitten branches
and received no answer.
With downcast eyes I walked some more,
and when I turned my view
to the horizon again
the sinking sun’s face
was no more than a bloodied scimitar.
It was the vestige
of some great duel
that pitted god and monster, equals,
and one might think
the terrifying sky-blade,
lay red upon the ground,
the battle spent, or respite
between colossal wars.

(November 1870).