Roman (A. Rimbaud)

I
One is not so serious when one is seventeen.
One fine night, sick of steins and lemonade
Of raucous cafes all that bright and glaring scene
He goes 'neath the green linden of the promenade.

The linden smell good on those good nights of July
At times the air so gentle coaxes close the eye;
The wind laden with noises - the city is nigh -
Bears aroma of the vine, aroma of the stein.

II
Then he catches sight of a tiny little patch
of dark azure, border'd by a little branch,
dotted with a naughty star, which would love to match
as it gently shivers, small and very white.

July Night! Seventeen! - Thus overcome with bliss.
Sap is champagne and it seeps up into your nape...
His thoughts prance; he feels on his lips a kiss
just crouching there, a critter taking shape...

III
Untethered the heart rambles across all novels
- When lo! In the clearing of a pale street light
There passes a damsel with most charming subtle spells
'Neath the shadow of her father's frightful o'ersight.

à suivre (et à revoir un peu, sans doute)...