Source: La vie est unique, 1933
Translated by: Chris Monier
Sunday
I always hated Sunday, like an enemy,
That stupid day
With its celestial vaulting
Which men pass under
Forcing themselves into empty celebration,
Believing neither in God nor their own souls.
Simply, I hated Sundays—
Phonographs, drunken workers,
The cowardly rich getting out in their cars,
The generous smell of the fatherland’s fries,
Little black soldiers, freshly-shaven sergeants,
I hated the ennui that alone in my room
I could read in the sky, so harsh when clear,
And so like our wrecked hearts when storming.
I hated this day when the factory was silent
Beloved work frozen, suspended
Leaving men the time to think,
To add up life’s paltry balance.
Yes, I hated Sundays
Because that’s when I think,
And count the lost days and future days
And despair here on this shore
Held down by gravity.
And now that I'm out of work
And the factory is cold and rusting
Each day is Sunday
And I hate each one
I want to sleep—
I love it only.
Oh waking up to the vile day!
I think and I die
And I think I'm dying.
Today, Sunday
Tomorrow, Sunday
Eternal Sunday
In the belly of the city.