A.R. [English translation]

The misery of a room in London,

the opium dens in Soho:

already grown-up, he threw himself away.

And his mother in the hayloft, in his memory:

old, rotten middle class.

Overturning words,

inverting their sense till spitting

searching for another poetry.

And Verlaine shooting him and shouting at him:

“Don’t leave me,

no, don’t leave me, my life…”

And ship, damn ship, go

my leg hurts, come on,

the lights of Marseille never come.

A lachrymal hydrolat is washing

The cabbage-green skies, the cabbage-green skies

Under the budding tree that dribbles

Your rubbers...1

The Portuguese, the English and many other birds of prey

he chose as companions.

With a desire to annihilate and not to give himself,

and stop, stop with poetry;

and wanting to get hurt to the point of ending up

he, an arms dealer,

between Egypt and madness;

and a Negress as big as a hospital to wait for

and then his leg, and the agony…

And ship, damn ship, go

I'm cold and lacks little to get, come on,

the lights of Marseille never come.

I've seen everything, and what do I know?

I gave up, I said "no"

I barely remember what my name is:

Arthur Rimbaud,

Arthur Rimbaud,

Arthur Rimbaud...

1. These are the opening lines of the poem by Arthur Rimbaud Mes petites amoureuses.