Arthur Rimbaud (1854 – November 1891)

He called the mix of Sun and sea,
Eternity. Named the un-nameable.
Then quit. Became poetry’s escapee.

Some die too soon, or lose their touch.
He gave it up.
And don’t you feel that way sometimes,

Wish you’d disembark your drunken boat.
Baby, give it up. Say,
Goodbye to ego’s phosphorescence.

Abandon aspiration, lick salt air
and Ethiopian lips. Enter in
the obvious again, beyond the sea

and Sun of symbols. Proclaim, ‘To Hell with
Eternity,” and sail endlessly away!