HONTE	SHAME
Arthur Rimbaud	trans. Tim Chilcott
Tant que la lame n'aura Pas coupé cette cervelle, Ce paquet blanc vert et gras À vapeur jamais nouvelle, (Ah! Lui, devrait couper son Nez, sa lèvre, ses oreilles, Son ventre! et faire abandon De ses jambes! ô merveille!) Mais, non, vrai, je crois que tant Que pour sa tête la lame Que les cailloux pour son flanc Que pour ses boyaux la flamme N'auront pas agi, l'enfant Gêneur, la si sotte bête, Ne doit cesser un instant De ruser et d'être traître Comme un chat des Monts-Rocheux; D'empuantir toutes sphères! Qu'à sa mort pourtant, ô mon Dieu! S'élève quelque prière!	As long as the blade hasn't Sliced off that brain, That parcel of fat, white and green, Its steam always stale, (Ah, but it's him who should cut off His nose, and his lips, and his ears, Should cut out his guts, abandon His legs! Wonderful!) But no. I really believe that, If the blade at his neck, The stones on his sides, The flame on his guts, Haven't finished their work, the troublesome Kid, so stupid a creature, Mustn't stop for a moment To cheat and betray. Like a Rocky Mountain cat, He must stink up the world! But yet, when he dies, oh my God, Let some prayer still be raised!

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Trans. copyright © Tim Chilcott 2003

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