In memory of Jean-Christian Edeinger (1976-2001) and of André Berton

It’s found you see.
What? — Eternity.
It’s the sun, free
To run with the sea.

Soul on watch
In whispers confess
To the empty night
To the day’s excess.

From the mortal weal
From the common urge
Here you diverge
To fly as you feel.

Since from you alone
Embers of satin
Duty breathes down
With no ‘at last’ spoken.

There’s nothing of hope,
No entreaty here.
Science and patience,
Torture is real.

It’s found you see.
What? — Eternity.
It’s the sun, free
To run with the sea.

— Arthur Rimbaud, Eternity (May 1872)