Une nuit que j'étais près d'une affreuse Juive/Remords posthume

I want to say that things are slightly better this morning. I managed to wake up without wanting anyone in particular to die. Things are better, I guess. I am forgetting more and more things and that is quite alright with me.

Last night we sat in N's room and watched the smoke drift up to the ceiling. I spend most of my time in their rooms, mine are too large and echoing. He and I used to sit there, overcrowded, breathing the same smoke and avoiding each others' eyes. He is gone for real, forever and it would not be so bad if I were not reminded of him at every turn. He is a part of everything and as such I can only work to hasten my own departure. I cannot stay here. I simply cannot.

I am also grateful that Mon. Baudelaire has finally written a poem that I am unable to mold and stretch to fit my own self-imposed drama.

One night I was close to a dreadful Jewess
One night I was close to a dreadful Jewess,
Like a cadaver stretched along a cadaver,
I took myself to dreaming by that sold body
Of the sad beauty which my desire denies itself.

To myself I imagined her native majesty,
Her gaze armed with vigor and with grace,
Her hair which makes her a perfumed helmet,
And whose memory rekindles me for love.

Because I would have kissed your noble body with fervor,
And from your cold feet up to your black tresses
Unrolled the treasure of deep caresses,

If, some evening, with a tear effortlessly evoked
You could only, oh queen of cruelties!
Obscure the splendor of your cold pupils.

Une nuit que j'étais près d'une affreuse Juive
Une nuit que j'étais près d'une affreuse Juive,
Comme au long d'un cadavre un cadavre étendu,
Je me pris à songer près de ce corps vendu
À la triste beauté dont mon désir se prive.

Je me représentai sa majesté native,
Son regard de vigueur et de grâces armé,
Ses cheveux qui lui font un casque parfumé,
Et dont le souvenir pour l'amour me ravive.

Car j'eusse avec ferveur baisé ton noble corps,
Et depuis tes pieds frais jusqu'à tes noires tresses
Déroulé le trésor des profondes caresses,

Si, quelque soir, d'un pleur obtenu sans effort
Tu pouvais seulement, ô reine des cruelles!
Obscurcir la splendeur de tes froides prunelles.

Posthumous Remorse
When you will sleep, my dark beauty,
In the depths of a monument built of black marble,
When you will have for alcove and mansion
Only a rainy vault and a shallow grave,

When the stone, oppressing your cowardly breast
And your flanks that softened a charming nonchalance,
You will stop your heart from beating and from wanting,
And your feet from running their daring course,

The tomb, confident in my infinite dream
(Because the tomb will always understand the poet),
During these great nights where sleep is banished,

Will say to you: “What does it help you, imperfect concubine,
To not have known why these dead ones cry?”
—And like remorse the worms will gnaw your skin.

Remords posthume
Lorsque tu dormiras, ma belle ténébreuse,
Au fond d'un monument construit en marbre noir,
Et lorsque tu n'auras pour alcôve et manoir
Qu'un caveau pluvieux et qu'une fosse creuse;

Quand la pierre, opprimant ta poitrine peureuse
Et tes flancs qu'assouplit un charmant nonchaloir,
Empêchera ton coeur de battre et de vouloir,
Et tes pieds de courir leur course aventureuse,

Le tombeau, confident de mon rêve infini
(Car le tombeau toujours comprendra le poète),
Durant ces grandes nuits d'où le somme est banni,

Te dira: «Que vous sert, courtisane imparfaite,
De n'avoir pas connu ce que pleurent les morts?»
— Et le vers rongera ta peau comme un remords.