a poem by Victor Hugo

This is a poem that i had to read for a class, and i liked it in French, so i decided to translate it on my own, which means that there are probably a lot of rough, wrong or awkward aspects to it, and the beautiful rhymes are lost, yet here goes: The poem comes from a collection of poems called Les Orientales, referring to the Orient: the East, and the title of this poem "Les Djinns" refers to evil spirits or demons of some of the Muslim faith's beliefs. Hugo wrote it in 1829. Note the crescendo/decrescendo form of the poem, which is supposed to imitate an attack.

Les Djinns

Walls, towns,
And bridge,
Santuary
Of sleep,
Gray sea
Where breaks
The breeze,
Everything sleeps.

In the plain
Is born a noise,
It's the breath
Of the night.
She bellows
Like a soul
That a flame
Always follows!

The voice, more strong
resembles a bell.
A dwarf who jumps
It's a gallop.
He vanishes, clasps
Then in cadence
On a foot dances
On the crest of a wave.

The rumor approaches,
The echo repeats
It's like the bell
Of a cursed convent;
Like the noise of a mob,
Who thunders and roles,
And sometimes collapses,
And sometimes grows.

God! The voice sepulcher
Des Djinns!...What noise they make!
Under the whorl
Of the deep stairs.
Already my lamp is lit,
And the shadow of the banister,
That stretches down the railing wall,
Rises up to the landing.

It's the multitude of Les Djinns who pass
And whistling hiss!
The yews, that their flight breaks,
Crack like a burning pine.
Their herd, heavy and quick,
Stealing in the empty space,
Seem like a pale cloud
Who bears a clearing in its flank.

They are all so close! --Keep closed
This room, where we taunt them.
What noise outside! Hideous army
Of vampires and dragons!
The ridgepole of the exposed roof
Bends as much as a soaked herb,
And the old rusted door
Trembles, to uproot its hinges!

Cries of hell! Voices who shriek and cry!
The horrible multitude, pushed by the North Wind,
Without doubt, O sky! will come down on my home.
The wall bows under the black battalion.
The house cries and staggering leans,
And one would say of that, torn soil,
As it chases a dried leaf,
The wind rolls it with their whistling!

Prophet! If your hand saves me
Of these impure demons of the night,
I will prostrate my bald forehead
Before your sacred censer!
Make that on these doors that loyally guard me,
Die their breath of the stars,
And that in vain the nails of their wings
Grate and cry to these black stained glass windows!

They are passing!--Their company
Is taking off, and fleeing, and their feet
Cease to beat on my door
With their multiplied knocks,
The air is filled with the noise of shackles,
And in the nearby forests
Shake all the grand oaks,
Under their flight of bending fire!

Of their wings faraway
The fighting declines,
So confused in the plains,
So fable, that one believes he
Hears the grasshopper
Cry in a hailed voice,
Or sparkle the hail,
On the top of an old roof.

Strange syllables
We come again;
While Arabs
When they sound the horn,
A song on the beach
Perhaps elevated,
And the child who dreams
Makes dreams of gold.

Ghastly spirits,
Sons of death,
In the darkness
Press their step;
Their mob grumbles
While, deep,
Murmurs a wave
That one does not see.

This vague noise
Who lulls itself to sleep.
It's the wave
On the shore;
It's the lament,
Almost extinguished,
Of a saint
For a death.

One doubts
The night.
I listen:--
Everything vanishes,
Everything passes,
Space
Erases
The noise.