Song of the highest tower by Arthur Rimbaud

O may it come, the time of love,
The time we´d be enamoured of.

I´ve been patient too long,
My memory is dead,
All fears and all wrongs
To the heavens have fled.
While all my veins burst
With a sickly thirst.

O may it come, the time of love,
The time we´d be enamoured of.

Like the meadow that is dreaming
Forgetful of cares,
Flourishing and flowering
With incense and tares,
Where fierce buzzings rise
Of filthy flies.

O may it come, the time of love,
The time we´d be enamoured of.