Vagabonds

Vagabonds

Pitiful
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.