The accursed cherub

Bluish roofs and pallid doors
As in a month of Sunday nocturnes,

At the end of town, all quiet
The street is pallid, and it’s night.

The street has houses passing strange
Shuttered after the manner of angels.

But, toward a milestone, behold
Running, awful and numb with cold,

A darkling cherub teetering,
Too many jujubes having eaten.

He makes caca and disappears:
But his accursed caca appears,

Under the holy vacationing moon,
Of cess a dirty bloody pool.

 

Arthur Rimbaud