And so I set out, hands in pockets with no seams.
My overcoat, too, was becoming an ideal.
I roamed beneath the sky, Muse, under your heel.
And oh, what marvelous loves filled my dreams!
My one pair of pants was torn and worn thin.
Tom Thumb dreamer, I trampled roads with a tread
Made of rhymes. On constellations, I lay my head.
The stars in the skies made a rustling din.
And I listened to them by the roadside stops,
On sweet September nights, when I felt the drops
Of dew on my forehead, like a wine, strong and tart.
And rhyming among strange shadows and traces,
I plucked the harp-strings I found in the laces
Of my ragged boots, one foot pressed to my heart.
Arthur RimbaudTranslated from French by Paul Weinfield, © 2014