THE HOROSCOPE

Beneath a dying sun in horrible syncopes,

My unhealthy spleens

Were conjuring up, concerning my case, the various horoscopes

Of the doctors.

Everywhere, an unsettling, hostile solitude,

Where every hole

Had some evil cry of insect, reptile,

And owl.

I was on a deserted road, partaking of the abyss

And of the dungeon,

Where the imminent storm blew a sulfurous wind,

Thick and hot,

Along a road bordered by gigantic hedges

That frightened me,

And by mutilated rocks displaying their wounds

With stupefaction.

And I went on, dismayed, thinking: “My illness is worsening!”

Feeling my pulse,

And gnawed by dread, by that vampire-dread

Like lice;

When suddenly, rising up in the uniform mist

Before my steps,

A tall gentleman wearing a top hat

Said to me softly

These words that suited the perfidy

Of his approach:

— “Beware: for you have the illness

Of which I died.”

Maurice Rollinat, 1883