brother! What frightful nights I owed him!
“I have not put enough ardor
into this enterprise.
I have trifled with his infirmity.
My fault should we go back to exile,
and to slavery.”
He implied I was unlucky
and of a very strange innocence,
and would add disquieting reasons.
For reply, I would jeer at this Satanic doctor
and, in the end, going over to the window,
I would create, beyond the countryside
crossed by bands of rare music,
phantoms of nocturnal extravagance to come.
After this vaguely hygienic diversion,
I would lie down on my pallet
and no sooner asleep than,
almost every night,
the poor brother would rise,
his mouth foul, eyes starting from his head,
— just as he had dreamed he looked!
and would drag me into the room,
howling his dream of imbecilic sorrow.
I had, in truth, pledged myself to restore him
to his primitive state of child of the Sun,–
and, nourished by the wine of caverns
and the biscuit of the road, we wandered,
I impatient to find the place and the formula.