Last Lines
What does it matter to us, my heart...

What does it matter to us, my heart, the sheets of blood
And of red-hot coals, and a thousand murders, and long howls
Of rage; sobbings from every inferno destroying
Every (kind of) order; and still the North wind across the wreckage;

And all the vengeance? Nothing!... - But still, yes
We desire it! Industrialists, princes, senates,
Perish! Power, justice, history: down!
It is our due. Blood! blood! the golden flame!

All to war, to vengeance, to terror,
My soul! Let us turn in the wound: Ah! away with you,
Republics of this world! Of Emperors,
Regiments, colonists, peoples, enough!

Who should stir the vortices of furious flames
But we and those whom we imagine brothers?
It's our turn, romantic friends: we are
Going to enjoy it. Never shall we labour, O fiery waves

Europe, Asia, America - vanish!
Our march of vengeance has occupied every place,
Cities and countrysides! - We shall be smashed!
The volcanoes will explode! And the Ocean, smitten...

Oh! my friends! - My heart, it is certain; they are brothers;
Dark strangers, if we began! Come on! Come on!
- O evil fortune! I feel myself tremble, the old earth,
On me who am more and more yours! the earth melts.

It is nothing: I am here; I am still here.

- As translated by Oliver Bernard: Arthur Rimbaud, Collected Poems (1962).

French version