Cry awhile for Rimbaud.
The old fawn smelling the spice woods is crying too-
Your ships remember him-
Oh! Sea’s fraternities
Oh! Garments under the sun
Oh! Tanned peeking eyes
So clear lies the sun in its grave-
Come cry awhile for Rimbaud.

The alley fills with lament-
Drain mouse is drunk on the snot on shoes--
Brown trousers and your drawers
And belt to the amethyst sky
Tips the walls where the alleys end-
Wind blowing from the woods
Wind crying for Rimbaud.

Windows of café- draw to a close
The warm intervals of your smell
Blood is dripping the glass that display
Your tedious hours- our vertigo is coming in--
Vanish awhile-till we see snow
As the cold of the eyes and feet-
And forget the blaring reverberating parades of the sun--
Lying cold and flat as a grave
Bring crying flowers to Rimbaud.

Dew from the lips of the hyacinths
Droop down the eyes of our love,
Our moon is in the hold of snow,-
By the passing of the storm the broom is frozen
By the passing of the storm the floor trembles-
Where your chair and worktable lie
Against the cold walls of a corner- like a dog
Say- Die, and then utter the frozen flower in your mouth
You say Rimbaud.

Come my love, sit between my knees, we will watch them
Go by, from our window which kept open
In the storm, it was just you and I;
Change if your heart says Change, Polemics is our life.
Workmen returning from factories, Work!
Remove these sounds, I am utter distress,
Melancholy runs through the circumference
Where the Wandering Jew cried;
Allow me to remove the frozen dust from your eyes,
Not the frozen tear, which was for Rimbaud.

The monster gazes through the walls everyday,
My transparency has become distressful and stupid,
I still lick the melancholy dream;
Tough canvass of sails, Rudderless ship,
How is it that our dreams function without any doubt
And still the monster tears apart my soul?
How still that bleak light cares to cover itself
And mock our sailing?
Beat the drums where we are to go,
For here, tomorrow glows obliquely and is in the dirt.
Turn away, when your heart says Turn away,
Nothing must return in our lives.
Yet those ropes which have tied daggers to my soul are no vile moods
But some dreams of this time when I am at an utter loss;
Sigh return to the waking eyes of the monster
Horror crawls over my skin; I have learned to chew
Oh! Rimbaud.

Where to? Brussels, keep the windows open to your night
We will have the alleys smell of tobacco and travel,
Our smoke is rising, diaphanous to your red nights
We are hungry, Hungry in the heart as in the belly stricken by a sickle of joy
And your trail will be the train of our skirts,
We are here! Let out your wealth
And we will say no false-hood of the twelve nights of your whores.
Oh! Whores, we are one of you, look at our hands
Which have beguiled the night,
Our passions and dreams are blanched;
Yet we gaze at the wordless bottom of things
Where the symphony- so cruel-poisoned-
Music to our ears-
Plays
And our bottom dances eternally!
I can’t last any longer if my stupors leave me;
I can’t live its mirrors that lays supportless,
Perched with an image so distant
That without its tremors, all looks meaningless-- A fool!
Oh! Intoxicated Brussels
Your eyes are seldom without the tears I shed
Remembering words, and Rimbaud.

Old ways of life, the cheap alley
Where the bought and sold are fragile, temperate;
The walls stained with our memory and blood,
The windows where our smells have gone, the rain and the pigeons,
The false companions of my soul
While my soul was elsewhere,
Why have your returned, with your eyes, forever?
Bawd, you sold me everyday,
While my innocence was traveling the wavery landscapes
Bound in a dream; while I dreamt of work, of the impossible
From my invisible chambers and sat master of the fortunes,
You sold me and my fate never sighed
Because I was in my invisible chambers,
Uttering dreams to the mist,
Building a jacket around Byzantium-
Alas! That too was a dream and no pebbles could hold
What you had decided to tear
Oh! Bawd, Monster,
Beneath the lake lies a corpse eaten away everyday
By the tender sighs that never stopped uttering words and curses
And Rimbaud.

Ah! But to change, the embrace that has no daggers in its pockets,
The kiss that shall never cheat my heart.
Change! If ever the glowing passion- not bawdy-
Usurped you, in your heart
Say Change!
Your portions, detangle from the accursed voice of slavery,
A portion hanged against the window of vice,
A portion forgotten while the travels- remembered-
And slain by the well of nightmares,
A portion made to kneel by a bucket full of flowers-
Colours- odious in your fragility and weakness
And scattered against the panorama of the slum sky,
A portion- your heart- questioned harshly, and softly,
Can you find the way?
A portion- your anger- the lecherous scream-
Settled in the passageways against the backdrop of black silence,
And the black silence rolled up your heart, a lamp, a lump,
Can you find your way?
‘This is the vigil’ stressed Rimbaud;
While the ache from the heart
Had long ceased the mind from existing but for the dream
The nightmare of the horror vanish amidst the blurred clouds
Of the night when the waking eyes saw not these alleys,
Smelt not this stink, afraid of so long a wish stood stunned
And naked- turned away, to the ghosts, the smoke,
Having to return some other day, a Pariah, but vigil, -
Nothing will return in our lives, oh! Rimbaud.

A colloquy- as the smoke lifted after the rain and the birds made away-
The cawing of a crow, stands like a chair in the ear or stares into a dream’s eye,
Not every time was matter thin in lines- and not every silhouette was cut thin by a line-
To attach it matter.…..
Come closer to me, my love, we are saved!
Our eyes are turning to the coasts of freedom where we shall work the running shadows of dreams
(the reminisces which remain with us)
And turn our dismal and volatile moods into the long-standing image
Of the tranquil page:
The worked page of a happy pen.
I entrust you with my faith, the soothing ink in your pen!
Sunny days when the flowerpots glimmered,
You came to me
I turned open my pages to you ‘There is no vice but to count vice
And court the open heart.
Matter is never in dirt; the shrill when the glass fell by our feet
And scattered our wounds-
We reckoned myriad of dew from the sea
Myriad moon on the floor.’
The alley went on without turns,
The darkness where a shadow lurked
Pretty loves Pretty doves weak for bread
At the bent watched things pass-
In other order of things
An ardour set about those hearts life was a king
Who then has bound us to the sky?
Like a bird is bound?
Or to feel the touch we could only call transcendence
Lie is love to the young, squeaks of a foolish heart, the song
Which by chimes in the wind-flushed roses down the cup where you held your soul
And oil put to thread where a babe slept or the sad dream wept.
Flickering lights of the Babe’s night
From where comes she?
Steady this bark of dreams, she comes too.
Alley glows out of the fugitives and exiles
She comes from the alley come: at sleepy pleats of desire they rave:And she comes and sleeps…..
I left life’s door open thinking of muses but the serenity was severed—Oh! Rimbaud.