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by Arthur Rimbaud (Translated by Jeremy Harding)
When the boy's head, full of raw torment1, Longs for hazy2 dreams to swarm3 in white, Two charming older sisters come to his bed With slender fingers and silvery nails. They sit him at a casement4 window, thrown Open on a mass of flowers basking5 in blue air, And run the fine, intimidating6 witchcraft7 Of their fingers through his dew-dank hair. He listens to their diffident, sing-song breath, Smelling of elongated8 honey off the rose, Broken now and then by a hiss9: saliva10 sucked Back from the lip, or a longing11 to be kissed. He hears their dark eyelashes start in the sweet- Smelling silence and, through his grey listlessness, The crackle of small lice dying, beneath The imperious nails of their soft, electric fingers. The wine of Torpor12 wells up in him then Near on trance, a harmonica-sigh 点击收听单词发音
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