“The Sleeper in the Valley (Le Dormeur du Val)”
by Arthur Rimbaud, translation by Karl Kirchwey
The Sleeper in the Valley
It's a dint of green where a river sings
and, crazy in silver rags, snags and stubs
on the bank's cresses, a summit's proud light reflecting
in a little valley. It bubbles with squibs.
A soldier sleeps, young, mouth open and bare-headed,
his nape bathed in cool blue cresses;
he's laid out on the ground under a cloud,
pale in a green bed where the light pours.
His feet are in the swords of gladiola.
He sleeps. He takes a nap, smiling the way a
sick child might. He feels cold: rock him warmly, Nature.
His nostrils don't quiver with the rich smells in the least.
He sleeps in the sun, his hand on his chest,
peaceful. There are two red holes, on the right side, there. |
