Against snow, a tall Beautiful Being. Whistlings of death and circles of muffled music make this adored body rise, swell and tremble like a ghost; scarlet and black wounds open in the magnificent flesh.

Arthur Rimbaud


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Evening prayer

I spend my life sitting, like an angel in a barber's chair,
Holding a beer mug with deep-cut designs,
My neck and gut both bent, while in the air
A weightless veil of pipe smoke hangs.

Like steaming dung within an old dovecote
A thousand Dreams within me softly burn:
From time to time my heart is like some oak
Whose blood runs golden where a branch is torn.

And then, when I have swallowed down my Dreams
In thirty, forty mugs of beer, I turn
To satisfy a need I can't ignore,

And like the Lord of Hyssop and of Myrrh
I piss into the skies, a soaring stream
That consecrates a patch of flowering fern.

Arthur Rimbaud


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На седемнадесет човек е само млад.

Arthur Rimbaud


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C'était comme une nuit d'hiver, avec une neige pour étouffer le monde décidément.

Arthur Rimbaud


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Is it in these bottomless nights that you sleep in exile?

Arthur Rimbaud


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Eternas ondinas,
dividid el agua fina.
Venus, del azul hermana,
conmueve las puras aguas.

Judío errante en Noruega,
dime, ¿cómo nieva?
Viejos exiliados tiernos,
contadme el océano.

YO-. Nunca esas bebidas puras,
ni esas flores de florero,
ni leyendas, ni figuras,
saciarme pudieron.

Coplista, tu ahijada
es mi sed que se desboca,
hidra íntima sin bocas
que roe y devasta.

Arthur Rimbaud

Tag: poetry



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And from then on I bathed in the Poem
Of the Sea, infused with stars and lactescent,
Devouring the green azure where, like a pale elated
Piece of flotsam, a pensive drowned figure sometimes sinks;

Where, suddenly dyeing the blueness, delirium
And slow rhythms under the streaking of daylight,
Stronger than alcohol, vaster than our lyres,
The bitter redness of love ferments!

Arthur Rimbaud

Tag: love



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إنّ كل ما تعلّمنا زائف

Arthur Rimbaud


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Elle est retrouvée!
Quoi? -l'Éternité.
C'est la mer allée
Avec le soleil.

Arthur Rimbaud

Tag: eternity



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Моя жизнь истощилась. Ну что ж! Притворяться и бездельничать будем, - о жалость!

Arthur Rimbaud


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