At Nouakchott’s reddened intersections,

Baseless arrogances at steering wheels;

Pour down on(to) (the) pot-holed roads,

On the way to who knows what hazy occupations.

 

In one of the opulent interiors of the island of riches

Of the capital, the pinched lips of the lady 

In the rich basin, chant eternal litanies,

Her fingers inflated with precious metal(s)

Can scarcely hide the ruby beneath the mat.

 

In the land of a million farts,

Of half a million xenon headlights,

And billions of grains of sand,

Curses of God go hand in hand

With litanies on the virtues of lust.

 

So much faith grafted to the marrow of greed,

Between well-stocked accounts and stomachs!

So much commotion on account of morality

When it flickers in (a) golden limbo!

 

In the intimacy of these dusks,

Thoughts are blackened, heated until white hot.

When, to clear them up, we return to solitude,

We find (there) the shadow (that) it has spread.