My hunger, Anne, Anne, flee on your donkey. <br /> <br />If I have any taste, it s for hardly anything <br />but earth and stones. <br />Dinn! Dinn! Dinn! Dinn! <br /> <br />Let us eat air, rock, coal, iron. <br />Turn, my hungers. <br />Feed, hungers, in the meadow of sounds! <br />Suck the gaudy poison of the convolvuli; <br />Eat, the stones a poor man breaks, <br />the old masonry of churches, boulders, <br />children of floods, loaves lying in the grey valleys! <br /> <br />Hungers, it is bits of black air; the azure trumpeter; <br />it is my stomach that makes me suffer. <br />It is unhappiness. Leaves have appeared on earth! <br />I go looking for the sleepy flesh of fruit. <br />At the heart of the furrow I pick <br />Venus' looking-glass and the violet. <br /> <br />My hunger, Anne, Anne, flee on your donkey.<br /><br />Arthur Rimbaud<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/feasts-of-hunger/
