Song from the Highest Tower
Let it come, let it come, The season we can love! I have waited so long, That at length I forget,
And leave unto heaven , My fear and regret; A sick thirst
Darkens my veins. Let it come, let it come, the season we can love!
So the green field, To oblivion falls, Overgrown, flowering,
With incense and weeds. And the cruel noise, Of dirty flies.
Let it come, let it come, the season we can love!
I loved the desert, burnt orchards, tired old shops, warm drinks. I dragged myself through stinking alleys, and with my eyes closed I offered myself to the sun, the god of fire. "General: If on your ruined ramparts one cannon still remains, shell us with clods of dried-up earth. Shatter the mirrors of expensive shops! And the drawing rooms! Make the city swallow its dust! Turn gargoyles to rust. Stuff boudoirs with rubies' fiery powder...." Oh, the little fly! Drunk at the urinal of a country inn, in love with rotting weeds; a ray of light dissolves him!
Arthur Rimbaud
Ravings II: Song from the Highest Tower
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