Original Title: "Ma bohème"
Text: Arthur Rimbaud
I was going away, fists in my bursted pockets;
My cardigan as well was becamin ideal;
I was going under the sky, Muse! and I was loyal to you;
Oh! There! There! What an amount of splendid loves I have dreamt about!
My only pants had a wide hole
- Dreaming Tom Thumb, I was shelling in the running
Some rhymes. My inn was at Ursa Major
- My stars had a sweet frills to the sky
And I was listening to them, sitting on the side of the roads,
Those good evenings of September where I was feeling some drops
Of dew on my forehead, like a wine of vigor;
Where, rhyming in the middle of fantastic shadows,
Like lyres, I was pulling on the elastics
Of my hurt shoes, a foot near my heart!