Obscur Et Fronce

by Arthur Rimbaud

Dark, wrinkled as a purple pink,

It breathes, it nestles in that bed of moss,

Still damp from love, which hugs the slope,

The white thighs' slope, to crater's heart.

Threads, gossamer, milky tears

Wept, wept, in scouring wind

That drove them on clots of scarlet scree

Till they tumbled on the edge, were gone.

My dreams touch kisses, kisses to the gate.

Soul envies couplings of the flesh,

Its tear-bottle this, its nest of sobs.

Ecstatic olive! Seductive flute!

Throat sucking almond-sweet sublime!

Moss-circled, female, promised land!