Illuminations: Being Beauteous

November 15, 2010

Devant une neige un Etre de Beauté de haute taille. Des sifflements de mort et des cercles de musique sourde font monter, s’élargir et trembler comme un spectre ce corps adoré ; des blessures écarlates et noires éclatent dans les chairs superbes. Les couleurs propres de la vie se foncent, dansent, et se dégagent autour de la Vision, sur le chantier. Et les frissons s’élèvent et grondent et la saveur forcenée de ces effets se chargeant avec les sifflements mortels et les rauques musiques que le monde, loin derrière nous, lance sur notre mère de beauté, – elle recule, elle se dresse. Oh ! nos os sont revêtus d’un nouveau corps amoureux.

O la face cendrée, l’écusson de crin, les bras de cristal ! le canon sur lequel je dois m’abattre à travers la mêlée des arbres et de l’air léger!

———-

Against the snow of Being a high-statured Beauty. Whistlings of death and circles of secret music make the adored body, like a specter, rise, expand, and quiver; wounds of black and scarlet burst in the superb flesh. – Life’s own colors darken, dance, and drift around the Vision in the making. – Shudders rise and rumble, and the delerious savor of these effects clashing with the deadly hissings and the hoarse music that the world, far behind us, hurls at our mother of beauty, – she recoils, she rears up. Oh, our bones are clothed with an amorous new body.

O the ashy faces, the crined escutcheon, the crystal arms! the cannon on which I am to fall in the melee of trees and of light air!

(translated by Oliver Bernard)

———-

Perante uma neve um Ser de Beleza de grande estatura. Silvos de morte e círculos de música surda sobem, alargam, abalam como um espectro este corpo adorado; feridas escarlates e negras rebentam nas carnes soberbas. As cores próprias da vida escurecem, dançam, soltam-se em torno da Visão, no estaleiro. E os frémitos sobem e rangem, e o ácido sabor destes fenómenos somado aos silvos mortais e às músicas roucas que o mundo, longe atrás de nós, lança sobre a nossa mãe de beleza – ela recua, ela ergue-se! Oh! um novo corpo de amor reveste os nossos ossos.

Oh o rosto de cinza, o broquel de crina, os braços de cristal! O canhão sobre o qual devo abater-me na peleja das árvores contra o ar macio!

(tradução de Mário Cesariny)

Arthur Rimbaud – 1886

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