Français
Español
Italiano
Deutsch
Português
1. The Parents
We are your Grandparents,
The Great Ones!
Covered with the cold sweats
Of the moon and the greenery.
Our dry wines had heart!
In the Sun without imposture
What does man need? to drink.
ME – To die in the barbarous rivers.
We are your Grandparents
Of the fields.
The water is at the bottom of the osiers:
See the stream of the ditch
Around the moistened Castle.
Let us go down into our cellars;
Afterwards, cider and milk.
ME – To go where the cows drink.
We are your Grandparents;
Here, take
The liqueurs in our cupboards
The Tea, the Coffee, so rare,
Quiver in the kettles.
– See the pictures, the flowers.
We are coming back from the cemetery.
ME – Ah! to drain all the urns!
2. The Spirit
Eternal Undines,
Divide the fine water.
Venus, sister of the azure,
Stir the pure wave.
Wandering Jews of Norway
Tell me about the snow.
Dear ancient exiles
Tell me about the sea.
ME – No, no more these pure drinks,
These water flowers for glasses;
Neither legends nor figures
Quench my thirst;
Songwriter, your goddaughter
Is my thirst so mad,
Intimate hydra without gullets
That undermines and desolates.
3. The Friends
Come, the Wines are going to the beaches,
And the waves by millions!
See the wild Bitter
Rolling down from the mountaintops!
Let us reach, wise pilgrims
The Absinthe with green pillars…
ME – No more these landscapes.
What is drunkenness, Friends?
I would just as soon, better, even,
Rot in the pond,
Under the frightful cream,
Near the floating woods.
4. The Poor Man’s Dream
Perhaps an Evening awaits me
When I shall drink in peace
In some old Town,
And die more content:
Since I am patient!
If my ill resigns itself
If I ever have some gold,
Shall I choose the North
Or the Land of Vines?…
– Ah, to dream is unworthy
Since it is pure loss!
And if I become again
The ancient traveler,
Never the green inn
Can be well opened to me.
5 – Conclusion
The pigeons that tremble in the meadow,
The game, that runs and sees the night,
The beasts of the waters, the enslaved beast,
The last butterflies!… are thirsty too.
But to melt where that guideless cloud melts,
– Oh! favored by what is fresh!
To expire in these damp violets
With which the dawns load these forests?
May 1872.
Arthur Rimbaud
Translation generated by Poésies 123 with assistance from the deepseek-chat artificial-intelligence model.
Text published on Poésies 123: https://www.poesies123.com/en/poem-comedy-of-thirst-arthur-rimbaud/