THE STATUE

Behold it, thus, over the dark foliage
Drawing its sovereign silhouette...
Does it not seem the premature blossom
Of a race which will live tomorrow?

So an unshakable, robust race
Sculpted with strokes on hard marble,
From the vast campaigns of the future
It will rout the human race.

Behold it, thus —crouched— in imperial
Calm, imposing frightful nakedness!
God!... Move that body, give it a soul!

See the greatness that sleeps in its form...
See it up there, wretched, defenseless,
Poorer than a worm, forever calm!