Peasants – Poem by Day Williams

Peasants

The afternoon sun beat on the clods and the sticks, 
Birds flew to the shade and rested, ignored, 
While the peasants worked the field, a crew of four.

“We will take the wealth and pride from the rich, 
Give their gold and silver to the sick and the poor, “
Boasted the peasants as they hoed the rows.

So they grabbed machetes and took from the rich, 
And the neighbors and families had more, much more.
Crowed the peasants, “We’ve hit it in the core.” 

“And we won’t invest and wait like the rich; 
We will break the windows, raid the liquor stores, “
Vowed the peasants before they passed out on floors.

Prices rose like parrot screams to high pitch, 
Not a man or woman worked anymore, 
And the bosses burned down the house of the Lord.

The bosses took peasants from the floors and the ditches, 
Strapped packs on their backs and gave them bright swords
And ordered them to march, march, march to war.

A few straggled back in tatters and stitches
To the crumbled village square, where they roared, 
“We clobbered them in front, knocked them down before, 

And left only a handful of rebels who twitched-
How the blood spattered their doors and their floors… 
Our names will go down in this country’s lore.”

And a crippled child asked, “What of the rich? 
Have they been destroyed, gone forevermore? 
Do peasants control the whole country’s stores? “

A soldier chuckled and said, “What of the rich? 
They backed both sides in our bloody war
And they control the whole country’s stores.”

And he hitched his pants and scratched an itch, 
Picked up a hoe in the dust by the door
And hobbled toward fields to start on his chores. 
Day Williams

Could’ve, Should’ve, and Would’ve

Could’ve, Should’ve, and Would’ve

Could’ve, Should’ve, and Would’ve
Knocked on my back door.
I said, “I’m going forward,
I don’t want you anymore.”

They moaned and whined and cried,
Stamped their feet and sighed.
I quickly closed the door
And waved to them, “Goodbye.”

~Day

St. Agnes

St. Agnes
12-year old martyr

A pagan’s threats failed to intimidate
God’s lovely virgin, born to Roman wealth.
“No matter how you torture me,” she stated,
“I’ll keep my purity though I lose health.”

The prefect roared, “You’ll be a prostitute,”
And soldiers dragged her naked through the streets.
She prayed; God grew her hair like bamboo shoots
And covered her, her modesty complete.

She kept her purity throughout her stay,
And when men tried to take her purity,
God struck them blind at once, and when she prayed,
The prefect’s son revived, and she went free.

Bloodthirsty Romans tried her for her faith
And tried to burn the maiden at the stake, but no,
The piled wood would not burn; in disarray,
A red-faced captain stabbed her through her throat.

Her story tells believers to be sure
They too can stand and practice holiness,
For holiness was possible for her,
And Agnes kept her faith even to death.

Enemies of the Christian faith abound,
And they will flourish as the darkness grows.
May saints stand firm until the end, when, crowned
Like monarchs, they will walk in pure white clothes.

~Day Williams

In the Grandstands

He threw a football three hundred yards.
“Broke a trellis in his neighbor’s yard.”

He jumped higher than the clouds.
“He’s too self-centered, too proud.”

He ran a marathon in record time.
“He should be charged with many crimes.”

He lifted more weight than any man before.
“The man’s performance is a snore.”

As a lifeguard, he saved a thousand lives.
“He’s had trouble with his wives.”

Three men on, he hit a grand slam.
“Hand me the raspberry jam.”

He swam the sea from Spain to Greece.
“I read the stupid press release.”

He dove 5000 feet into a pool.
“The dude oughtta go back to school.”

He pitched ten consecutive perfect games.
“He’ll do anything to build his name.”

He rounded up 1000 cattle in an hour.
“Phew! Man needs to take a shower.”

The heavyweight champion–he knocked him out.
“Man’s a loser, loafer and lout.”

He pole-vaulted through the stratosphere.
“He might get better next year.”

He outran a cheetah on Serengeti’s plains.
“Bind the man in iron chains.”

~Day

California Cove, poem by Day Williams

California Cove

                              you kings, be wise;

Be warned, you earthly rulers.

~Psalm 2:10

I.
From New York, Texas, and D.C.
The weaving spiders come
To grow their fame and wealth and might
And pluck the precious plums.

They spend some time with employees
They pull the boys’ pants down
The Manly Coven thrills to cooks
Who profit from the clowns

And Doctor Octopus plays chess
In evening’s afterglow
As Thomas Paine stands in the light
Outside California Cove

II.
The Wicked Witch, her dreams are sleazy
“Bring my hammer and my toy,”
She joins her girlfriend in a basement
Where she keeps her golden boys

A jet brings Wild Bill Hickok
With coke from railroad tracks:
“These women are my property
The rest of you, go back”

And the lawyers from the swamp
Have bought a porn star’s trove;
Foundations skim donations
At California Cove

III.
Underground rooms are busy
Prince Charming has spurned his bride
The Madames from North Beach
Are shocked to view the homicides

And Cain has caught and clobbered Abel
Atop the Temple Mount
Where Abraham has waited years
To open a new account

Monk Rasputin has romped with maids
And ruined Chicago’s homes
He’ll lead the ceremony
Tonight at California Cove

IV.
The Powermongers give talks
Beside a tree-lined lake
And they pretend that they don’t care
What titles they may take

Their eyes transfixed by symbols
From ancient Babylon
They phrase their buzz words expertly
Nodding to the Ku Klux Klan

But their disguises aren’t so good
Down at the bordello
Where videos are made and stored
At California Cove

V.
Freddy Krueger scared the limo
That drove along Elm Street
Up to a grassy knoll
Where nightmares took their seats

And Caesar, on his right side,
Shot the peace candidate
Who would have stopped a foreign war
When profits come from hate

Weaving spiders fondly recall
Cave Men from long ago
Who fixed and tricked the sleeping giant
At California Cove

VI.
Vincent Vega, assigned his task,
Arranges maps and guns,
No matter why, the bullet flies,
He’ll notch another one.

Director Jay, on public pay,
Dislikes a journalist,
He calls a pal and pays his way,
“That boy won’t be missed.”

Twisted men meet and scratch their rears
They fight their vertigo
By acting like they have no fears
At California Cove.

VII.
Down trails, by trees, up forest tracks
Cave men hunt dangerous game
No deputy can find the bodies
And no one is to blame

Hog farmers come to clean the mess
The Cave Men leave behind
They’ll never tell the coppers
On what the pigs have dined

And by Washington’s Monument
The narcissists run moles
Who spy on Paine and Jefferson
At California Cove

VIII.
Now Cassius looked so long and lean
And called his bookie for a bet
A high-placed man would die that night,
A hardship he won’t regret

He forges 302s for Brutus
Persuading him to join
The pool of high-stakes players
With shiny Power Points

He wears fine suits and flashes smiles
As in a puppet show
You wouldn’t know his savage weeks
At California Cove

IX.
Now by the guarded entrance gate
Protesters carry signs,
A fat head sticks out from a limo
And in a high voice whines,

“Nurse Ratched will fix your head,
You nonconformist freaks,
She’ll shock your brain ‘til you comply
And you can only squeak”

The limo speeds inside the place
As though a racer drove
For fun and games and care in flames
At California Cove

X.
A songbird formed his whole career
By turning on his land
He’s sided with the enemies
And he should be banned

The songbird plans his funeral
As though he will soon die
But Grandpa knows he lied again
He’ll fake his death and fly

An orb or planet deep in space,
An isle off Mexico,
Nowhere to hide when he has come
From California Cove

XI.
In strides the smiling oil man
And he conducts a dance
He rests inside an ivy coffin
And takes the kids for romance

He stores his conscience in a vault
Inside an ocean trench
He tramps across the forest camp
To a girl he calls his wench

And Dr. Szell says open wide
He’ll probe for what you know
And if it hurts, why, tell the men
At California Cove

XII.
Rick Blaine rides to the airport in fog
With Ilsa as time goes by
He makes a heart-break tarmac deal
A patriot would buy

And Rocky’s ready for a fight
With clowns who harm his kids
And he will pound Count Dracula
‘Til his jawbone falls to bits

In subterfuge and trickery
The hungry ply their trade
The prostitutes have more morals
Than Cave Men who make AIDS.

XIII.
Before the panic and debris
Lucky Larry had breakfast toast
He checked fine print on policies
Assured to claim the most

Put options placed for profits max
In their overflowing cups
Godfathers took a front-row seat
To watch the nukes blow up

Goldfinger envies them so much
He will attend the Owl Show
To participate in sacrifice
At California Cove.

XIV.
As innocents are shot to death
Sheriff Hoyt says stand down
He takes his orders from half-high,
From Wendy and the clowns.

His handler, hideous harridan,
Runs spies in her domain
Wendy sells her country for a kiss
And tries to blackmail Tom Paine

A body on a beach tells tales
About the lawns she mows
Don’t double-cross that horrid boss
At California Cove

XV.
Dr. Downer creates diseases
So he can sell the cure
And puts the profits through a laundry
While he goes on a tour

Harry Lime promotes disorders
And bigger DSM’s
He will sell you pills through your doc
So he can buy more gems

He claims they’ll solve your problems
And keep you status quo
If you will buy his merchandise
At California Cove

XVI.
Cleopatra has sailed her barge
Downriver to the sea
While Antony professes love
He’s down on his knees

She smiles and checks computer files
That tell her all she needs
She’ll scare him with the dirt she has
And satisfy her greed

Her bank accounts are empty
Funds disappeared in holes
But she’ll replenish them with work
From California Cove.

XVII.
Too bad a minion in the crew
Has had enough of this
He hands the queen some poisoned wine
And seals it with a kiss

She flashes her shameless smirk
And downs the wine with flair
And says, “I’ll never be arrested–
Nobody would dare!”

And as she chokes and gasps
Her terror and panic grow:
“I should have told the truth
About California Cove.”

XVIII.
The pirate-profiteers hoist flags
Along the river bank:
“We’re only here for gold, you louts,
When tough, we’ll break ranks.”

Some ask them for their balance sheet
They plunge into a funk:
“If you invade our privacy
We’ll put you in a trunk.”

The Cave Men greet confusing men
Who play their puppet shows
And keep Tom Paine in heavy chains
At California Cove

XIX.
Darth Vader types the false flag scripts
His lackies carry out
And he eliminates the fools
Who harbor righteous doubts

Storm troopers come in force to drag
Off those who have switched sides
“You must remain in Darth’s plantation
Or we will tan your hide.”

The humble people in their fog
Don’t know which way to go
So Cave Men sneer and keep control
At California Cove.

XX.
Bonnie and Clyde’s machine guns
Have rusted in a heap
While they formed a foundation
To pillage sleeping sheep

“Honor? Integrity?
Those are for little folks.
We’re masters of the world,”
A Naked Cave man spoke.

Funny how planes smoke and crash
When people get too close
Funny about the accidents
From California Cove.

XXI.
Hannibal Lector’s on the loose
To grab a tasty bite
At Jimmy’s pizzeria
Where news anchors alight

Gordon Gekko works the phones
He’s shorted casino stock
Travis Bickle, wearing suit and tie,
Works with him round the clock

The Joker says he’ll bomb a building
To punish those in the know
And Dr. Downer joins him
At California Cove.

XXII.
Norman Bates runs in the shower stall
A butcher knife in hand
And Ellen Ripley slams his groin
Into his thyroid gland

And Atticus is standing up,
A prosecutor now,
With his unsealed indictments
He’ll drive the justice plow

The Power Boys, like cornered rats,
Will bite to overthrow
The people’s choice and champ
At California Cove

XXIII.
Benedict Arnold in crosshairs
Behaves like he’s on meth
In the sewers and cesspools
The nameless songbird fakes his death

Mr. Potter now owns the town
Foreclosing on each one
Robin Hood shoots him with arrows
Because he owns no gun

The Cave Men party through the night
The Robber Barons gloat
Rape victims have nowhere to go
At California Cove

XXIV.
Tom Paine has started a storm
Ben Franklin flies a kite
The villagers awaken
The dawning of the light

And Harry Callahan has chased
The crooks from pole to pole
And when he cocks his forty-four
He knows they’ve sold their souls.

The moon is blood, the stars go out,
Hawaiian lava flows
And no one worships God
At California Cove

~Day Williams


Seven Days with My Little Brother

Seven Days with My Little Brother

Monday you were a coyote
Who crept around and growled at noon
You poked your nose in all my clothes
At night you howled at the moon

Tuesday you were an eagle
Who flew to the highest skies
You disappeared and I was cheered
‘Til Mommy said, “Come down for fries.”

Wednesday you were a gorilla
Who roared and stomped my toys
I was about to knock teeth out
When Mommy said, “What’s all this noise?”

Thursday you swam like a shark
And gobbled up my snacks
Shark swam so fast that he got past
The door before he was attacked.

Friday you were a kangaroo
Who jumped up and down at noon
When Mommy thumped your kanga-rump,
You jumped as high as the moon.

Saturday you were an elephant:
Your trunk reached through my window
And tried to snatch my coins and cash
‘Til Mommy slapped it and said, “Go!”

Sunday you’re my little brother
With mud and freckles on your cheeks
With dirty pants who plays with ants:
Watch out! I’ll be the beast next week!

Catherine of Siena, poem by Day Williams

CATHERINE OF SIENA

(1347-1380)

Catherine of Siena

A person who believes that Jesus Christ

Is Lord and Savior of the World is called

A saint through faith, the substance of the things

Hoped for, the evidence of things not seen;

And in the Catholic Church some souls are known

As saints and doctors by the grace of God.

The blessed Catherine of Siena, born

A twin upon Annunciation Day,

The last of thirteen children who survived,

Professed her love for God through holiness

When wars and plagues had shaken faith and hope

In city-states of Tuscany where walls

Protected citizens from outside harm.

Her father’s trade was dyeing wool; his wife,

Madonna Lapa, ruled the family.

This daughter destined to direct the Popes,

Young Caterina Benincasa, taught

Herself to say the Angelus at five,

And knelt upon the steps of stairs at home

To say an Ave Maria, step by step.

When she was six years old, she looked across

Valle Piatta to the abbey church

Of San Domenico; above its roof

She saw the Savior of the World, who sat

In bishop’s robes upon a royal throne,

The treble Papal crown upon His head.

Beside the Lord were Peter, Paul and John,

And Jesus raised His hand and blessed the girl,

Who stood enraptured while the love of God

Abounded in her soul, a cup that gushed.

Her brother called to her; she did not move.

He had to take her arm to make her wake

As though from sleep, transformed forevermore.

She swam beneath the water in the sea

Of love, and vowed when seven she would be

The bride of Christ, and of no other man,

A virgin pure in body and in soul.

In times alone with God she learned to build

An inner cell within her soul which she

Would never leave, despite temptation’s pull

And the entreaties from her family,

Who wanted to arrange a groom for her.

Forced to divulge her vow of chastity,

She told her parents that her will was fixed:

“It would be easier to melt a stone

Than tear this resolution from my heart.

I must obey the Lord before all men;

My Bridegroom is so rich that He will give

Me all I need, if you should throw me out.”

The twelve-year-old prevailed; no more would they

Attempt to wed her to a mortal man,

Although she lived beneath her parents’ roof

Another seven years, her room a cell

Beside the landing, ten by sixteen feet.

O Catherine, if I had one-tenth your zeal,

What miracles could God perform through me,

What battles could He win for souls of men!

The revelation of the Trinity

Was hers through meditation, solitude,

And the denial of her self: three times

A day she scourged her body with a chain

Of iron: once for her own sins, once more

For sins of every living soul, and once

For souls in purgatory, giving Christ,

Her Lord and Savior, blood for blood, ‘til blood

Ran down her shoulders in her sacred cell.

Within her parents’ house where she would sleep

For half an hour on every other day

On planks of wood when she was not in prayer.

The holy teen’s devout desire to join

An order of St. Dominic was quenched

At last when she received the robe and veil,

In white to symbolize her purity,

And the black cape, in black as sign of death

Unto this world and of humility.

Eternal blessedness is knowing God,

God as He is; thus she renounced the world,

That which is vanishing, for unity

With Him who suffered on the cross of love.

She gave belongings to the poor, and cared

For sickest of the sick in darkest hours,

Even when stinking wounds made others leave,

And patients shouted blasphemies at her.

Companions said that when she prayed, she rose

Above the floor so high that one could place

A hand between the woman and the floor;

When she received the Body of the Lord,

She would withdraw in ecstasy, as stiff

And as insensible as Lazarus

Four days inside the cave before the Lord

Commanded him to rise and leave the tomb.

When Catherine’s soul was lifted to commune

With Love Incarnate, she could not perceive

A needle in her foot, and passersby

Who doubted her sincerity would kick

The girl who lay insensate in the street.

At twenty-two she ate no solid food,

And for long times the Eucharist alone

Provided nourishment for her who drank,

In mystic flights, from Jesus’ wounded side.

Christ let her see His secrets, and equipped

Her with the gifts of grace to call her forth,

His weapon in the battle for men’s souls.

One story of a multitude is all

I have the space to tell of how she saved

The souls of men through visions and her prayers.

One winter day two wagons took two men,

Condemned to suffer torture and then death,

Around the town as executioners

Used red-hot tongs to tear and burn their flesh.

The robbers, chained to stakes, reviled the Lord

As townsmen shook and shuddered in alarm;

But Catherine of Siena, who had seen

The wagons pass, retired to beg in prayer

For Christ to save the wretches’ souls, as He

Had saved the robber crucified by Him.

The wagons drove up to a city gate,

The Porta della Giustitia,

And there beneath the arch stood Christ, who wore

A crown of thorns and bled from head to toe.

Caught up in Spirit, Catherine saw the Lord;

The robbers saw Him too, and when He saw

Their eyes and hearts, defiance in them broke.

These highwaymen called for a priest, confessed

Their sins, sang hymns, and met their deaths content.

The very moment that they died redeemed,

The praying virgin woke from ecstasy,

For love of God and mankind for His sake

Was all the mystic knew worth living for.

The exile of the Popes to Avignon

(Franciscans called it Babylonia,

And hung their harps on poplars as they wept)

Disrupted Rome, corrupted faith, and left

Believers rudderless and insecure.

The Roman churches lay in ruins, priests

Had morals of degenerates, and law

Was lost as factions fought and clutched for power.

God sent as punishment the plague, Black Death,

Which killed one-half of Europe’s populace.

In thirteen-fifty St. Birgitta, a seer

From Sweden, heard the call to cleanse the Church.

She went to Rome and urged the Pope to leave

His capital in Avignon, lest he

Should suffer wrath from God– but he refused.

As John the Baptist heralded the work

And ministry of Christ, Birgitta ran

Before the mystic saint who wrought success,

The Pope’s return to Rome from Avignon,

For Catherine told Pope Gregory that he

Had made a vow when Cardinal to move

To Rome if ever he became the Pope,

A vow which he had never told a soul.

At thirty-three, the age her Bridegroom died,

Suffering, paralyzed below the waist,

As she lay on her bed of wooden boards,

The purest dove accused herself of sins,

And cried aloud, “My honor!  Never!  Praise

And honor to Christ crucified alone!”

In April thirteen-eighty Catherine gave

Her spirit to the Father’s hands.

In spring a million buds appear on trees;

In winter snowflakes fall from clouds, each one

Unique in pattern, each a gift to earth,

And as each bud and snowflake offers gifts

That come from it alone, so every child

Who’s born again of God, among the millions, bears

And offers special gifts, the gifts of grace

And mercy to the Lord and humankind.

This daughter of a wealthy family

Used special gifts to lead and move the Popes

And men of lower rank to follow God.

Greater than special gifts that Catherine had

Through her ascetic life and ministry

Was intimacy she possessed with Christ;

She loved the Lord with heart and soul and strength,

And fixed her eyes on Jesus’ wounds; she knew

None are redeemed without the blood of Christ.

She served her Bridegroom, clove right by His side,

Surrendered self with zeal, and gave up pride

As she renounced the world to be His bride.

Good Government

The patriots who made America
Great did not shrink from challenges and some
Gave their own lives–not for vacation days
And pension plans–but for the right to live

And build and love, pursuing happiness
In freedom, saved from the king’s heavy hand.
Good government comes from sound reasoning
With principles that take account of law

And human needs as well as stewardship
Of resources to meet today’s demand,
Pay debts and keep reserves for rainy days.
The Constitution and the Bill of Rights

Protect the people from abuses that
An overzealous and tyrannical
Agency or official could inflict
On citizens, who have less power than

The forces that the government can wield.
Shall government expand its reach, or stay
Within its present limits? Private groups
And companies: What influence should

They have on the decisions made for all?
What happened to states’ rights, the concept that
The States would have more power than the Feds
Except for certain areas prescribed

For them, such as the military, roads,
Post offices, treaties with other lands?
Shall not the States have rights to educate
Their citizens as they think best for them?

The President lets endless wars drag on
Like wounded beasts limping to waterholes.
He looks at profit, not the cost in lives,
And the Joint Chiefs refine their schemes for more.

What is this right of privacy that Roe
Invented to allow the baby deaths
By tens of millions, Moloch’s barbarism?
And Congress, like a boy who stubbornly

Refuses to perform his chores, has given up
Its power to declare a war . . . or not.
Without the fear of God to curb desires,
Men take the lowest, quickest roads, and men

Lose touch with lovingkindness, empathy,
And senses of fair play that drive most people.
Rogue agents and the Deep State, aided by
Some corporations linked to billionaires,

Usurp the rule of law and warp the press
So that the legal system can’t control,
Deter, or prosecute their monstrous crimes.
To have the innocents be massacred

And profit thus from short sale of the stock–
Such evil go unpunished often, which
Encourages more crime throughout the world.
Elected representatives decide

That they’ll pretend the land and money grabs
Do not take place–or they’re too compromised
To write the laws or take the actions that
Would stop the greedy globalists, who plan

To herd the masses into megacities
And social-engineer each person’s life.
The Fourth Estate, which once held government
To close account for questionable deals,

Too biased to investigate without
Regard to parties, and too indolent
To stray from corporate narratives, becomes
A hiding place for “journalists” who have

Poor ethics, while the independent press,
Still impecunious, has forged first-class
Fresh work that goes where cowards cowering
In mainstream pressrooms are afraid to go.

Who will arise to battle tyranny,
The many-headed serpent with forked tongue,
Gorged on its gold and power and control?
Sleeper, awake, help win the worthy fight.

~Day Williams

“Pleasure Isle,” a poem

Pleasure Isle

You scientist, you royal one,
You who wield great power,
I offer treats, you’ll be complete,
This is your vital hour.

My friend, come to my Pleasure Isle,
Ride on my private jet,
And even better, check each letter
That shapes the Alphabet.

Join me on my Pleasure Isle,
Fulfill your fantasies in style,
You’ll be glad you went to Pleasure Isle.

Take Tunnel One or Tunnel Two:
Each leads to Pleasure Spots;
Choices you make and undertake
Will tie your legs in knots,

And nevermore will you regret
Free rides and party times:
You’ll prod and poke–what backwards folks
Foolishly call crimes.

Join me on my Pleasure Isle,
Fulfill your fantasies in style,
You’ll be glad you went to Pleasure Isle.

Free as the wind, free as the rain,
The pleasures you discover:
A gentle breeze brings fantasies:
You’ll wander and uncover

Forbidden fruit few mortals taste:
The sweet-cream snuggly snacks
That I’ve prepared by crystal stairs–
I know you will come back.

Join me on my Pleasure Isle,
Fulfill your fantasies in style,
You’ll be glad you went to Pleasure Isle.

Small animals may squirm and squeak,
They’ll squawk and squeal, and spur
Pursuit to catch their tails, snatch them
And stroke and stain their fur,

And how your happy heart will heat,
And how you’ll nibble meals,
The tricks or treats with pizza meat
That satisfy your zeal,

Join me on my Pleasure Isle,
Fulfill your fantasies in style,
You’ll be glad you went to Pleasure Isle.

And I’ll preserve these memories,
Richer than double malts,
Fine resolution, no distribution,
Protected in a vault,

And you will do as I request,
Small favors in return:
You’ll say good words to high-fly birds . . .
I’d hate to see you burned.

Join me on my Pleasure Isle,
Fulfill your fantasies in style,
You’ll be glad you went to Pleasure Isle.

~Day Williams

***

Sarah Ruth Ashcraft Retweeted Swamp Drainer

The plot thickens…. “Alan. Welcome aboard. Plane. 17. Q” Post #1137 Apr 12 2018 00:36:28 (EST) “#17 Q” Post # 1133 Apr 11 2018 21:09:57 (EST) “Thank you Alan. Welcome aboard. Freedom!” Post #1132 Apr 11 2018 20:22:02 (EST)

Replying to and

“Sleeper in the Valley” by Arthur Rimbaud

SLEEPER IN THE VALLEY

(Le Dormeur du Val)

 

Green vale where a river sings like a choir,

Flirting with grasses, those tattered rags

Of silver; where the sun, from hills of fire,

Shines; green vale where rays flash even in crags!

 

A young soldier, mouth open, naked head,

Sleeps; he’s stretched in grass under skies,

Neck bathing in a blue watercress bed−

He’s pale in his green bed where the light cries.

 

His feet in gladiolus, sleep enfolds

Him, smiling like a sick child taking rest.

Nature, rock the child warmly, he’s cold.

 

Sweet smells don’t make his nostrils quiver wide,

He sleeps in the sun, his hand on his chest,

Tranquil. He has two red holes in his right side.

 

~Arthur Rimbaud

(translated from the French by Day Williams)