Among the cryptic, emerald darnel that plays,
In the umbrage where wavering lindens scent
Tall grasses and reeds, slender and bent,
An alabaster tombstone slowly decays.
And there, asleep, beneath the sun above,
You, bohemian wayfarer, cradled in your crate,
Smile as the sun shines upon the ghosts that love,
Tormented by fire within the graveyard's gate.
As an eternal poet you take your purgatory well,
For you lived with anguish for a forty year spell,
And so you slumber as the flames consume your sins.
(The dour moon arises, and the doleful night begins.)
And in the dark, a fresh bouquet is laid upon the dewy grass.
By me, your prodigy! - Rimbaud! - Your pains shall surely pass!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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