Long after the days and the seasons, and people and countries.
The banner of raw meat against the silk of seas and arctic
flowers;
(they do not exist). Recovered from the old fanfares of
heroism,–
which still attack the heart and head,– far from the old
assassins.
— Oh! the banner of raw meat against the silk of seas and
arctic flowers;
(they do not exist).– Bliss! Live embers raining in gusts
of frost.–
Bliss!– fires in the rain of the wind of diamonds
flung out by the earth’s heart eternally carbonized for us.
— O world! (Far from the old retreats and the old flames,
still heard, still felt.)
Fire and foam. Magic, veering of chasms and clash of icicles
against the stars.
O bliss, O world, O music! And forms, sweat, eyes
and long hair floating there. And white tears boiling,–
O bliss!– and the feminine voice reaching to the bottom of
volcanoes
and grottos of the arctic seas. The banner…
-Arthur Rimbaud