Found this one today. Fits my current disillusionment of all things about cities…
Rimbaud was a French Poet of the late 1800’s. Did most of his work between age 10 and 20, and died aged 37.
I am an ephemeral
and a not too discontented citizen
of a metropolis considered modern
because all known taste
has been evaded in the furnishings
and the exterior of the houses
as well as in the layout of the city.
Here you will fail to detect the least trace
of any monument of superstition.
Morals and language
are reduced to their simplest expression,
at last! The way these millions of people,
who do not even need to know each other,
manage their education, business,
and old age is so identical
that the course of their lives
must be several times less long
than that which a mad statistics
calculates for the people of the continent.
And from my window I see new specters rolling through
the thick eternal smoke–
our woodland shade, our summer night!–
new Eumenides in front of my cottage
which is my country and all my heart
since everything here resembles it,–
Death without tears,
our diligent daughter and servant,
a desperate Love, and a pretty
Crime howling in the mud in the street.