Translated by Alastair Reid  - Wuthering (1988)

When they were called to the table,

the tyrants came rushing

with their temporary ladies,

it was fine to watch the women pass

like wasps with big bosoms

followed by those pale

and unfortunate public tigers.

The peasant in the field ate

his poor quota of bread,

he was alone, it was late,

he was surrounded by wheat,

but he had no more bread;

he ate it with grim teeth,

looking at it with hard eyes.

In the blue hour of eating,

the infinite hour of the roast,

the poet abandons his lyre,

takes up his knife and fork, puts his glass on the table,

and the fishermen attend

the little sea of the soup bowl.

Burning potatoes protest

among the tongues of oil.

The lamb is gold on its coals

and the onion undresses.

It is sad to eat in dinner clothes,

like eating in a coffin,

but eating in convents

is like eating underground.

Easting alone is a disappointment,

but not eating matters more,

is hollow and green, has thorns

like a child of fish-hooks

trailing from the heart,

clawing at your insides.

Hunger feels like pincers,

like the bite of crabs,

it burns and has no fire.

Hunger is a cold fire.

Let us sit down to eat

with all those who haven't eaten;

let us spread great tablecloths,

put salt in the lakes of the world,

set up planetary bakeries,

tables with strawberries in snow,

and a plate like the moon itself

from which we can all eat.

For now I ask no more

than the justice of eating.