A taste of ashes flies through the air; -- an odor of
sweating wood on the hearth, -- dew-ret flowers, -- devastation along the
promenades, -- the mist of the canals over the fields -- why not incense and toys
already?
I have stretched ropes from steeple to steeple; garlands
from window to window; golden chains from star to star, and I dance.
The upland pond smokes continuously. What witch will rise
against the white west sky? What violet frondescence fall?
While public funds evaporate in feasts of fraternity, a bell
of rosy fire rings in the clouds.
Reviving a pleasant taste of India ink, a black powder rains on my vigil. I lower the jets of the chandelier, I throw myself on my bed, and turning my face towards the darkness, I see you, my daughters! My queens!
Reviving a pleasant taste of India ink, a black powder rains on my vigil. I lower the jets of the chandelier, I throw myself on my bed, and turning my face towards the darkness, I see you, my daughters! My queens!
Arthur Rimbaud
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