L'Irréparable

The beginning of the end, right? I am about halfway through this work in about half the time I had anticipated. God only knows if it will slow down before the set date.

Confession today. And there will an argument, wrath and sadness. We are not right.

The Irreparable
Can we muffle the old, the long Remorse,
That lives, fidgets and squirms
And feeds itself on us like the worm on the dead,
Like the caterpillar on the oak tree?
Can we muffle the implacable Remorse?

In what philter, in what wine, in what infusion,
Can we drown this old enemy,
Greedy and destructive like the courtesan,
Patient like the ant?
In what philter —in what wine —in what infusion?

Tell it, fine sorceress, oh! tell if you know it,
To the spirit packed with anguish
And such as one dying that the wounded crush,
Crumpled by the horse’s hoof,
Tell it, fine sorceress, oh! tell if you know it,

To this dying one that the wolf already sniffs
And whom the crow watches,
To this shattered soldier! If he needs to despair
Of having his cross and his tomb;
This poor dying one that the wolf already sniffs!

Can one illuminate a black and muddy sky?
Can one tear up the darkness
More dense than pitch, without morning or evening,
Without stars, without somber lightning?
Can one illuminate a black and muddy sky?

The Hope that shines in the windows of the Inn
Is blown out, is dead forevermore!
Without moon and without beams, finding where they live
The martyrs of a nasty road!
The Devil has extinguished all the windows of the Inn!

Adorable sorceress, do you love the damned?
Tell, do you know the unpardonable?
Do you know the Remorse, with the poisoned strokes,
For which our heart serves as target?
Adorable sorceress, do you love the damned?

The Irreparable gnaws with his accursed teeth
Our soul, pitiful monument,
And often he attacks as the termite,
The building by the base.
The Irreparable gnaws with his accursed teeth!

—I have seen sometimes, at the far end of a trivial stage
That ignited the echoing orchestra,
A fairy kindled in an infernal sky
A miraculous dawn;
I have seen sometimes, at the far end of a trivial stage

A being, which was only light, gold and gauze,
Striking down enormous Satan;
But my heart, which ecstasy never visits,
Is a stage, where one awaits
Always. Always in vain, the Being with wings of gauze!

L'Irréparable

Pouvons-nous étouffer le vieux, le long Remords,
Qui vit, s'agite et se tortille
Et se nourrit de nous comme le ver des morts,
Comme du chêne la chenille?
Pouvons-nous étouffer l'implacable Remords?

Dans quel philtre, dans quel vin, dans quelle tisane,
Noierons-nous ce vieil ennemi,
Destructeur et gourmand comme la courtisane,
Patient comme la fourmi?
Dans quel philtre? — dans quel vin? — dans quelle tisane?

Dis-le, belle sorcière, oh! dis, si tu le sais,
À cet esprit comblé d'angoisse
Et pareil au mourant qu'écrasent les blessés,
Que le sabot du cheval froisse,
Dis-le, belle sorcière, oh! dis, si tu le sais,

À cet agonisant que le loup déjà flaire
Et que surveille le corbeau,
À ce soldat brisé! s'il faut qu'il désespère
D'avoir sa croix et son tombeau;
Ce pauvre agonisant que déjà le loup flaire!

Peut-on illuminer un ciel bourbeux et noir?
Peut-on déchirer des ténèbres
Plus denses que la poix, sans matin et sans soir,
Sans astres, sans éclairs funèbres?
Peut-on illuminer un ciel bourbeux et noir?

L'Espérance qui brille aux carreaux de l'Auberge
Est soufflée, est morte à jamais!
Sans lune et sans rayons, trouver où l'on héberge
Les martyrs d'un chemin mauvais!
Le Diable a tout éteint aux carreaux de l'Auberge!

Adorable sorcière, aimes-tu les damnés?
Dis, connais-tu l'irrémissible?
Connais-tu le Remords, aux traits empoisonnés,
À qui notre coeur sert de cible?
Adorable sorcière, aimes-tu les damnés?

L'Irréparable ronge avec sa dent maudite
Notre âme, piteux monument,
Et souvent il attaque ainsi que le termite,
Par la base le bâtiment.
L'Irréparable ronge avec sa dent maudite!

— J'ai vu parfois, au fond d'un théâtre banal
Qu'enflammait l'orchestre sonore,
Une fée allumer dans un ciel infernal
Une miraculeuse aurore;
J'ai vu parfois au fond d'un théâtre banal

Un être, qui n'était que lumière, or et gaze,
Terrasser l'énorme Satan;
Mais mon coeur, que jamais ne visite l'extase,
Est un théâtre où l'on attend
Toujours. toujours en vain, l'Etre aux ailes de gaze!
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Maybe the syphilis was beginning to overtake Baudelaire's brain at this point, but he seems to be trying to establish a repeating pattern, only to rip it away from us. Genius has its price or something.