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| Mithra the Jesus |
He is affection
and the present moment
because he has thrown open the house to the snow
foam of winter
and to the noises of summer
—he who purified drinking water and food
—who is the enchantment fleeing places
and the superhuman delight of resting places.
—He is affection and future,
the strength and love which we,
erect in rage and boredom,
see pass by in the sky of storms
and the flags of ecstasy.
He is love,
perfect and reinvented measure,
miraculous, unforeseen reason,
and eternity: machine loved for its qualities of fate.
We have all known the terror of his concession
and ours: delight in our health,
power of our faculties,
selfish affection
and passion for him,
—he who loves us
because his life is infinity…
And we recall him and he sets forth …
And if Adoration moves,
rings, his Promise,
rings: "Down with these superstitions,
these other bodies,
these couples and ages.
This is the time which has gone under!"
He will not go away,
he will not come down again
from some heaven,
he will not redeem the anger of women,
the laughter of men,
or all that sin:
for it is done now,
since he is
and since he is loved.
His breathing,
his heads,
his racings;
the terrifying swiftness
of form
and action
when they are perfect.
Fertility
of the mind
and vastness
of the world!
His body!
the dreamed-of liberation,
the collapse of grace
joined with new violence!
All that he sees!
all the ancient kneelings
and the penalties canceled
as he passes by.
His day!
the abolition of all noisy
and restless
suffering
within more intense music.
His step!
migrations more tremendous
than early invasions.
O He and I!
pride more benevolent
than lost charity.
O world!
—and the limpid song
of new woe!
He knew us all
and loved us,
may we, this winter night,
from cape to cape,
from the noisy pole
to the castle,
from the crowd
to the beach,
from vision to vision,
our strength and our feelings tired,
hail him
and see him
and send him away,
and under tides
and on the summit
of snow deserts
follow his eyes,
—his breathing
—his body,
—his day.
by Rimbaud
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