by Arthur Rimbaud （Translated by Jeremy Harding）

    When the boy's head， full of raw torment，

    Longs for hazy dreams to swarm in white，

    Two charming older sisters come to his bed

    With slender fingers and silvery nails.

    They sit him at a casement window， thrown

    Open on a mass of flowers basking in blue air，

    And run the fine， intimidating witchcraft

    Of their  fingers through his dew-dank hair.

    He listens to their diffident， sing-song breath，

    Smelling of elongated honey off the rose，

    Broken now and then by a hiss： saliva sucked

    Back from the lip， or a longing to be kissed.

    He hears their dark eyelashes start in the sweet-

    Smelling silence and， through his grey listlessness，

    The crackle of small lice dying， beneath

    The imperious nails of their soft， electric fingers.

    The wine of Torpor wells up in him then

    Near on trance， a harmonica-sigh

    And in their slow caress he feels

    The endless ebb and flow of a desire to cry.