A FEW REASONS WHY I LOVE RIMBAUD Poem by ZANG DI

His name carries blue waves,
a strange love-hate
that doesn't hurt. Slow waves that rise and fall—
like a spectroscopic phenomenon.
At least, I'm fond of this odd way
he was introduced to us.
Destined to be born in southern France,
then to go to Paris, to Brussels,
to London, to wild Africa
to find enough sand.
People wash things with water, but he
washed things with vast quantities of sand.
I understand all this, and love
the glittering part of it.
I can't be sure though, if I would take him
as a poetry brother had I been born
a hundred years earlier. But I know
I like him, because he said
everyone was an artist.
His reasoning was very straightforward:
being a genius himself, he saw genius
in everyone, either potential,
or unknown. His appeal,
simple but complex. "Quoi? - L'Éternité."
It's funny that when I sleep at night,
I occasionally think he was talking nonsense,
but when I wake up in the morning, bathed
in the freshness of early light, I realize
he was certainly foresighted.