Arthur Rimbaud
Spring is at hand, for lo,
Within the city’s garden plots
The government’s harvest is beginning to grow—
But the gardeners call the shots!
O May! What bare-assed ecstasy!
Sevres, Meudon, Bagneux, Asnieres,
Hear our Farmer-Generals, busy
Planting in the empty air!
Guns and sabers glitter in parade,
Bright-mouthed weapons pointing straight ahead—
It’s a treat for them to beat their feet
In the mud of a river running red!
Never, never now will we move back
From our barricades, our piles of stone;
Beneath their clubs our blond skulls crack
In a dawn that was meant for us alone.
Like Eros, politicians hover overhead,
Their shadows withering the flowers:
Their bombs and fires paint our garden red:
Their beetle-faced forces trample ours . . .
They are all great friends of the Grand Truc!
Their chief in his gladiolus bed blinks
Back his tears, puts on a sorrowful look,
Sniffs smoke-filled air, and winks.
The city’s paving stones are hot
Despite the gasoline you shower,
And, absolutely, now, right now, we’ve got
To find a way to break your power!
Burgeois, bug-eyed on their balconies,
Shaking at the sound of breaking glass,
Can hear trees falling on the boulevards
And, far off, a shivering scarlet clash.