Farewell

(Une Saison en Enfer: Adieu)

Autumn already! But why regret an eternal sun, if we are engaged in discovering the
divine light far from races that die with the seasons.
Autumn. Our ship towering in the motionless fog turns towards the port of poverty, the
enormous city with a sky thats flecked with fire and mud. Ah! The rotting rags; the
bread soaked with rain, the drunkenness, the thousand loves that have crucified me!
Shell never have done then, this ghoulish queen of millions of souls and corpses who
will be judged! I see my skin ravaged again by mud and pestilence, worms filling my
hair and my armpits, and bigger worms in my heart, stretched out among ageless
unknowns, without feeling...I might have died there...Horrible imagining! I detest
poverty.
And I fear winter because its the season of comfort!
Sometimes I see limitless beaches in the sky covered by white nations full of joy. A
great golden vessel, above me, waves its multicoloured flags in the morning breeze.
Ive created all the feasts, all the triumphs, all the dramas. Ive tried to invent new
flowers; new stars, new flesh, new languages. I believed Id gained supernatural
powers. Ah well! I must bury my imagination and my memories! Sweet glory as an
artist and story-teller swept away!
I! I, who called myself magus or angel, exempt from all morality, Im returned to the soil,
with a task to pursue, and wrinkled reality to embrace! A peasant!
Am I wrong? Is pity the sister of death, for me?
Well, I shall ask forgiveness for nourishing myself with lies. Lets go.
But no friendly hand! And where to find help?

Yes, the present hour is very severe at least.
Since I can say the victory is won: the gnashing of teeth, the hissing of flames, the
pestilential sighs are fading. All the foul memories are vanishing. My last regrets flee.
My envy of beggars, brigands, friends of Death, all sorts of backward ones.
Damned ones, if I revenged myself!
Its necessary to be absolutely modern.
No hymns: hold the yard gained. Harsh night! The dried blood smokes on my face, and
Ive nothing at my back but that horrible stunted tree! ...Spiritual combat is as brutal
as the warfare of men: but the vision of justice is Gods delight alone.
Still, now is the eve. Let us receive every influx of strength and true tenderness. And at
dawn, armed with an ardent patience, well enter into the splendid cities.
What did I say about a friendly hand? One real advantage, is that I can smile at old false
loves, and blast those lying couples with shame Ive seen the hell of women down
there: and it will be granted me to possess truth in a soul and a body.