Cloud of Murmured Prayer

While the red-stained mouths 
of machine guns ring 
Across the infinite expanse of day; 
While red or green, 
before their posturing King, 
The massed battalions break and melt away; 
And while a monstrous frenzy runs a course 
That makes of a thousand men a smoking pile


— Poor fools! — dead, in summer, in the grass, 
On Nature’s breast, who meant these men to smile; 


There is a God, who smiles upon us through 
The gleam of gold, the incense-laden air, 
Who drowses in a cloud of murmured prayer, 
And only wakes when weeping mothers bow 
Themselves in anguish, wrapped in old black shawls— 
And their last small coin into his coffer falls.

Arthur Rimbaud, in 'Evil'


"For a long time I prided myself I would possess 

every possible country." 

Bonjour!