My Arcimboldograph

For a long time I praised myself to have viewed all the possible landscapes, and found ridiculous, the celebrities of painting and modern poetry. I liked paintings, idiots, the tops of doors, decorations, fabrics in the costumes of travelling acrobats, signs, not so popular illuminations; the obsolete literature, church latin, erotic books without orthography, novels of my grandmothers tastes, fairy tales, small books of childhood, old operas, refrains denied, naive dance rhythms and the cadences of walking. I dreamed of crusades, voyages of discovery, the unplanned destinations in which one does not have relations, republics without stories, choked wars of religion, revolutions by murderers, displacements of races and continents: I believed in all the enchantments of mystery. I regulated the shape and the movement of each vowel and consonant, and, with instinctive rhythms, I flattered myself, inventing an accessible poetic verb, one day or the other, with all the directions of my heart. I reserved the translation to others. It was initially a study that I wrote silently,and by nights, I noted the inexpressible beings. I, veristes, observed jungle birds, herds, villagers, with whom I did drink, fixed in customs, with knees in this tender heather and hazel trees, in a fog of tepid and green afternoons. What could I drink as this young person, Orpheus without voice, grass without flowers, sky without clouds! Drinking from yellow gourds, far from my chocolate box, some gold liquor which makes sweat, I made a ladling of absinthe, when a storm drove out the sky; and in the evening, the water of wormwood was lost on virgin sands and the wind of Gods threw ice floes to the ponds. Crying, I saw gold, and pus to drink. At four hours of the summer morning, the torpid sleep of love still lasts. Under the scrap-leaves, the odor of the evening mists and night-devouring lives. Over there, in their vast sun, the gods are agitated - in shirtless arms - the Carpenters. In their foam deserts, quiet, They prepare the skirtings for the city's false skies. Ah, for these prone charmed workmen of a king of Babylon, Venus! leave one moment the Lovers whose hearts are cast to the Shepherds, to the workers, to the skies, the brandy, with which their forces are in waiting to bathe in the sea of midday. -a flaring of trumpets sounds- SONG OF the HIGHEST TOWER. Then it comes, when it comes, the time of one's excitement. I stoke patience as well as forever, then forgetting calls to fears and sufferings with the skies cleft, and sickening thirst darkening my veins, then it comes, that it becomes, the time of one's excitement. The gold liquor, the golden meadow, with the lapse of memory delivered, grown and flowered, of incense and ryegrasses, with the savage bumblebee and with dirty flies. That, it becomes; that, it becomes the time when one knows. I liked the desert, the burned orchards, the faded shops, the warmed drinks. I trailed myself in the dark alleys with my closed eyes, I was offered to the sun god's fire, and if there remains an old gun on the ramparts in ruins, bombard me with blocks of dry ground or the ices of the splendid hails! in the living rooms, make me eat the dusts of the city. Oxidize the waste-gas mains with powdered boudoirs of ruby... "Oh!, in love with the borage in which a ray dissolves!" HUNGER, if I have taste, it is not for the ground and the stones. I always lunch on air, rock, coals, and iron. My hungers turn and feed on the hunger for the sounds of words. Attract the merry venom of the bindweeds. Eat the stones with which one breaks old stones of churches; the rollers of the old floods, pains sown in the valleys, the wolf under the sheets, spitting the beautiful feathers of its kill. Commend him, for I am consumed. The salads, the fruits do not wait until hunger, and the spider of the hedge eats only violets. Then I sleep! then I boil With the furnace bridges of rust, and mixed with dreams, lastly, ah, happiness, ah, reason, I draw aside from the azure sky, which was black, and I live, a golden spark of the natural light. Of joy, I took an expression and stray with the possibilities: It is eternity. It is the sea mixed With the sun. My eternal heart, observe, In spite of the night alone and the day in futility you release yourself from the human votes, from the common dashes! fly according to your hopes. Science and patience, the torment is sure. More following day, Embers of satin, your heart is your duty. It is found! - What? - Eternity. It is the sea mixed With the sun. The soothsayers' fabulous opera: I live that all the beings have fates of happiness: the action is not the life, but a way of wasting some force, an irritation that casts a pearl. Morals are the weakness of the brain. With each being, several other lives seemed to me due. This creature knows only what it makes and is an angel. This human family is a litter of puppies. In front of several men, mad high with moments from one of their other lives. - Thus, I loved a pig or a bird with no sophisms or madness, - the madness which one locks up, - was forgotten by me: I could repeat them all, I hold the view that my path was threatened, dissolving in the tincture of lost memory. Terror came. I fell into sleep several days, and arose, I continued the saddest dreams until I was ripe for the demise, and by a road of dangers my weakness carried me to the borders of the world and the worlds of others, to fatherlands of the shade and the swirls. I am due to travel, again, distracted by the enchantments assembled in my brain. On the sea, that begat me as if it had a wish to, I saw rising, the mists of the world leaving to eternity. I had been over the rainbow. Happiness was my fate, my remorse, my worm: my life would be always too immense to be devoted to the force and the beauty. Happiness! Its tooth, soft with death, informed me with the song of the cock in morning. Whose heart is without defects? I made the magic study of happiness that some elude. Hello. Ah! I will not want any more: responsible, myself, for my life, this charm took heart and body and dispersed my efforts toward the hour of its escape, the hour I can greet the beauty of today. And then, this is over.