Your breast on my breast,    Our voices mingling We'd finally reach the ravine,    And then the forest... And like a little death,    Your heart overcome, You'd say: carry me    Eyes barely open... And I would, tremblingly,    Into the woods: A bird whistling an air:    By the hazelnut tree... I would speak into your lips;    Stepping tirelessly, cradling Your body like a baby by its cradle,    Drunk with blood That flows beneath your skin    As it blossoms rose: I speak my mind    That your mind knows...
Arthur Rimbaud, from âNina Repliesâ


















