Arthur Rimbaud.

In the white mist of day,
Where poet's paper meets with a kiss,
Upon the pages trails of ink display
Words of jewels trickle in the bliss,
Pale blue eyes that toil in the night,
Unveil the charms of a sad moonlight,
Where constellations of broken stars await,
For the love of the bruised poet's hand.

Your ink swelling nib flows wildly,
Down the lanes of lonely echoes,
Searching the lofty light,
Through to the mournfully arid shadows,
Till the bee and the flower unite,
In the glorious sights of day,
Where the devil and the angels fight,
For the thoughts on a page that lay.
The critic will follow, like a dog for a bone,
There upon the page to be judged by fate,
Around the town the village idiot awaits.

You escaped the faces of Charleville,
By the tracks of steal and stone,
Sauntering through fields alone,
In awe of reinvention.
Dried mouth, you journeyed to Africa,
Selling sandy charms and arms to the enemy.
Limped legged by the cursed wounds of fate,
The clock is ticking toward the cemetery gate,
Farewell little blue eyed rebel,
The swirling nib, to the coffin lid,
Hammering down the bluest eyes,
And here beneath the maggot ground ,
Two bluest jewels that I ever found.

And in the mist the empty mist,
With your French eyes toward the stars,
Toward Jupiter, Saturn, Mercury, Venus, and Mars,
You will shine like a Noble Pharaoh,
A nomad, a glistening stream,
Or perhaps a simple hero.