Mystic
On the slope of the hill, the angels turn their wool robes in pastures of steel and emerald. Flame leaps close to the hill’s summit. At left, the fertile ridge is stamped by murder and battle, and the sounds of disaster spin their course. Beyond the right ridge—the way of the orients, their progress.
And while the frieze of the painting is formed of the twisting, leaping rumor of conches and seas and of human nights,
the flower-softness of the stars and the sky and the rest descends opposite the hill, like a basket,—opposite our face, and becomes the full blue abyss beneath.
—Arthur Rimbaud
Trans. Eric Westerlind
SHARKPACK Poetry Review 