Français
Español
Italiano
Deutsch
Português
HE
Your breast on my breast,
What? we would go,
With air filling our nostrils,
To the fresh rays
Of the good blue morning that bathes you
In the wine of day?…
When all the shuddering woods bleed
Mute with love
From every branch, green drops,
From the bright buds,
One feels in opened things
The trembling of flesh;
You would plunge into the alfalfa
Your long peignoir,
Divine with that blue that rings
Your great dark eye,
In love with the countryside,
Sowing everywhere,
Like a champagne foam,
Your mad laughter!
Laughing at me, brutal with intoxication,
Who would take you
Just like that, – the beautiful braid,
Oh! – who would drink
Your taste of raspberry and strawberry,
O flesh of flower!
Laughing at the sharp wind that kisses you
Like a thief!
At the pink wild rose that annoys you
Amiably…
Laughing above all, O crazy head,
At your lover!…
Seventeen years old! You will be happy!
Oh! the great meadows,
The great amorous countryside!
– Say, come closer!…
– Your breast on my breast,
Mingling our voices,
Slow, we would reach the ravine,
Then the great woods!…
Then, like a little dead girl,
Heart in a swoon,
You would tell me to carry you,
Eyes half-closed…
I would carry you, palpitating,
Along the path…
The bird would spin its andante,
Pretty porter…
I would speak to you in your mouth:
I would go, pressing
Your body, like a child one lays down,
Drunk on the blood
That flows, blue, under your white skin
With rosy tones,
Speaking to you low in plain language…
There!… – that you know…
Our great woods would smell of sap,
And the sun
Would sand with fine gold their great dream
Dark and vermilion!
Evening?… We would take the road again
White that runs,
Strolling, like a grazing flock,
All around…
The good orchards with blue grass
With twisted apple trees!
How one smells them a whole league away,
Their strong perfumes!
We would reach the village
Under a half-black sky;
And it would smell of milk
In the evening air;
It would smell of the stable full
Of warm dung,
Full of a slow rhythm of breath,
And of great backs
Whitening under some light;
And, far over there,
A cow would dung proudly,
At every step!…
– Grandmother’s glasses
And her long nose
In her missal, the beer pot
Rimmed with lead,
Foaming among the wide pipes
Which, jauntily,
Smoke: ten, fifteen, immense lips
Which, all smoking,
Snatch the ham with forks
So, so much and more;
The fire that lights the little beds,
And the sideboards;
The shiny and fat buttocks
Of a big child
Who stuffs, on his knees, into cups,
His white snout
Brushed by a muzzle that growls
In a gentle tone,
And licks the round face
Of the dear little one…
Black, sour at the edge of her chair,
Awful profile,
An old woman before the embers
Who makes thread;
How many things we would see, dear,
In these hovels,
When the flame illuminates, clear,
The gray windowpanes!…
– And then, fresh and all nestled
In the lilacs,
The house, the hidden window
That laughs over there…
You will come, you will come, I love you,
It will be beautiful!
You will come, won’t you? and even…
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-what-holds-nina-back-arthur-rimbaud/