Au Cabaret Vert
Those eight days on the road, their wear-and-tear, Had left my boots stone-savaged. Limping-late, I came to Charleroi, to the Cabaret Vert.
I asked for buttered doorsteps and a plate Of anything they had, some half-cold ham.
Relaxed, I stretched legs' ache beneath their green Table and stared, too tired to give a damn, At the daft doings in the simple scene Their wallpapers repeated.
Bliss, pure bliss Flowed over me when that big-bristolled chick — Not one, her bright eyes signalled, whom a kiss Would discompose — brought in my butter-thick Slabs of rich bread; my lukewarm pink-and-white Ham with its sprigs of garlic; all sweet-spread On a painted plate.
Dear Christ, how good the sight Of the mug she smiled to fill, whose frothing head, Not the expected white, shone golden-red In one long sunshaft of late evening light.
Arthur Rimbaud (1845 — 1891)
Translated from the French by Graeme Wilson
Previous page
