Here is a poem also translated by Robin Fulton,
and it's from a dream.
Most of it is actually just a dream
I had after a traffic accident.
And it's called "Citoyens," which means citizens,
as you know, in French.
They are characters from the French Revolution.
The only time I dreamt about these people were this night.
"Citoyens."
"the night after the accident I dreamt
of a pockmarked man who was walking through the alleys
singing.
Danton!
Not the other one--
Robespierre doesn't take such walks.
Robespierre spends a careful hour each morning
on his toilet, the rest of the day he devotes to The People.
In the paradise of the pamphlet, among the machines of virtue.
Danton-- or the man who wore his mask
seemed to be standing on stilts.
I saw his face from beneath.
Like the scarred moon, half in light, half in mourning.
I wanted to say something.
A weight in the breast, the plummet that makes the clocks
go, the hands turn.
Year one, year two--
A sharp scent like sawdust in the tiger stalls.
And, as in all dreams, no sun.
But the walls were shining in the alleys that curved down
to the waiting room, the curved room, the waiting room where
we all--"