Salut! Ye champions of pleasure!
Whence do you come, to hurry thither to
the sport, with your standards glimmering
and gleaning and your lancets erect?
Whence to the sigils of night, to its
cafes and bars, to keep your vigil, below
the lamp-light gleam? With your weary
pace and dance-light step, one would
think you virgins to the world, passing
from below one lamp to another, through
the shades that pursue the walkers. Have
you not seen those shades, felt their
breath on your sweaty necks? As you haste
to do your duty, suppose upon arriving
you would not find it there, your object
blurry and distant, would you be
delighted? Or further, suppose that
Janus, that god of gates, would blink and
block your path, would you still act like
dragonslayers? So, when hurrying below
the empress moon, I hope she will not lower her
thumb, for who would then be left to hear
of that? And if you were to feel that breath
behind you, do not turn, but haste once
more; below the night-lights, towards
your desirous and deviant excesses, to keep
your vigil, to not turn, and not to feel.
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