I'll read you one poem from the section of translations.
Short one.
[NO AUDIO]
Oh, perhaps this one.
It's called "December Venice".
Upended under the sea of forest supports the decaying city,
which once was a place of levies, of spices,
of a great fleet, of a lean and haughty countenance cast
in somber gold.
Place of genius, of war, of savage prisons.
The chill trees robed in salt and blackness
uphold the squalor, the marvel.
The city is sliding towards its death.
In its piazzas, gray birds look for the long ago leaves.
The poet's name is Jean Joubert.