Being Beautious

Against a fall of snow, a being beautiful, and tall
Whistlings of death and circles faint music
Make his adored body, swelling and trembling
Like a specter, rise...
Black and scarlet gashes burst in the gleaming flesh.
The true colors of life grow dark,
Shimmer and separate
In the scaffolding around the vision
Shiverings mutter and rise,
And the furious taste of these effects is charged
With deadly whistlings and raucous music
That the world, far between us, hurls up at our mother of beauty...
She retreats us, she rises up...
O ash-white face
O tousled hair
O crystal arms!
On this cannon I mean to destroy myself
In a swirling of trees and soft air!

- A. Rimbaud

Ordinary Nocturne

One breath tears operatic rents in these partitions,
Destroys the pivots of eroded roofs,
Dispels the limits of the hearth,
Makes casements disappear.

Along the vine I came,
Using a gargoyle as a footrest,
And into this carriage which shows its age
In convex windowpanes, in rounded panels,
In torturous upholstery.

Hearse of my lonely sleep,
Shepard's cart of my stupidity...
The vehicle spins on the grass of an overgrown highway;
In a blemish high on the right window
Revolve pale lunar fictions, breasts and leaves.

A very dark green and a very dark blue blot out the image.
We unhitch and unharness beside a patch of gravel.

- Here we will whistle for storms, for Sodoms and Solymans, For wild beasts and armies.

(Postilion and dream horses will ride on
through more dense and suffocating groves,
to sink me to my eyelids in the silken spring.)

- And drive ourselves off, whipped through splashing water
And spilled drinks, to roll on the barking of bulldogs...

One breath dispels the limits of the hearth.

- Arthur Rimbaud