From the indigo straits to Ossian's seas, <br />on pink and orange sands washed by the vinous sky, <br />crystal boulevards have just risen and crossed, <br />immediately occupied by poor young families <br />who get their food at the greengrocers'. <br />Nothing rich.-- The city! From the bituminous desert, <br />in headlong flight with the sheets of fog spread <br />in frightful bands across the sky, <br />that bends, recedes, descends, <br />formed by the most sinister black smoke <br />that Ocean in mourning can produce, <br />flee helmets, wheels, boats, rumps.-- <br />The battle! Raise your eyes: that arched wooden bridge; <br />those last truck gardens of Samaria; those faces reddened <br />by the lantern lashed by the cold night; <br />silly Undine in her noisy dress, down by the river; <br />those luminous skulls among the rows of peas,-- <br />and all the other phantasmagoria-- the country. <br />Roads bordered by walls and iron fences <br />that with difficulty hold back their groves, <br />and frightful flowers probably called loves and doves, <br />Damask damning languorously,-- possessions of magic <br />aristocracies ultra-Rhinish, Japanese, Guaranian, <br />still qualified to receive ancestral music-- and there are inns <br />that now never open anymore,-- <br />there are princesses, and if you are not too overwhelmed, <br />the study of the stars-- the sky. <br />The morning when with Her you struggled among <br />the glittering of snow, those green lips, <br />those glaciers, black banners and blue beams, <br />and the purple perfumes of the polar sun.-- Your strength.<br /><br />Arthur Rimbaud<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/metropolitan/
