(tanka)

   The wolf was howling
among the undergrowth, and
   expectorating
fine feathers from his breakfast
of young hens. Like him, I consume

   my life — fruits, fresh greens
just wait for my hand to pluck —
   but in his hedgerow
a spider sips violets
only — so let me slumber —

   let me boil upon
the altars of Solomon
   a clear russet stock
that mingles its simmerings
with the torrents of Khedron


ARTHUR RIMBAUD
© Translated by James Kirkup