Fêtes de la faim, poem by Arthur Rimbaud

My hunger, Anne, Anne,
Flee on your donkey.

If I have any taste, it is hardly
For anything but earth and stones.
Dinn! dinn! dinn! dinn! Let us eat the air,
The rock, the coals, the iron.

My hungers, turn. Graze, hungers,
The meadow of sounds!
Draw in the merry venom
Of the bindweeds;

Eat
The pebbles that a poor man breaks,
The old church stones,
The shingle, sons of deluges,
Breads lying in the gray valleys!

My hungers, it is the scraps of black air;
The azure bell-ringer;
— It is the stomach that pulls me.
It is misfortune.

On earth the leaves have appeared!
I go to the flesh of overripe fruit.
In the heart of the furrow I gather
The woodruff and the violet.

My hunger, Anne, Anne!
Flee on your donkey.

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-fetes-de-la-faim-arthur-rimbaud/