Le Crépuscule du matin

Is it wise to judge my life in these discrete periods of time? June/December was Spleen, January/March was Paris. I could almost feel it in my body, the dramatic shift from hatred to peace. It would not be fair to credit one single thing with this, but to look at it much like a row of dominoes. Only the dominoes are good things that happen to me. Once the mistakes left and took the anger with them I forgot why everything mattered. His freckled shoulders are the empirical proof that life can start again and that settling is not something that has to be done. Not him, just the change he affected. We are both humans. That's why it works.

I now close the Parisian Scenes with a much more stable mind and much more peaceful heart. Oddly enough, Baudelaire chooses to make his last poem in this section about the morning. Where will he go? I don't know.

Morning Twilight
Reveille sang in the yards of the barracks,
And the morning wind blew over the lanterns.

It was the hour when the swarm of wicked dreams
Twist the brown youths on their pillows;
When, like a streaming eye that palpitates and quickens,
The lamp makes a red stain against the day;
When the soul, under the feet of a sour and heavy body,
Imitates the struggles of the lamp and the day.
Like a tearful face that the breezes dry,
The air is full of the shivering of escaping things,
And man is weary of writing and woman of loving.

Houses here and there began to smoke.
Women of pleasure, the pale eyelid,
Mouth open, sleeping their stupid sleep;
Beggar women, dragging their cold and meager breasts,
Blew on their embers and on their fingers.
It was the hour when among the cold and the poverty
Worsening the pains of the women in labor;
Like a sob cut off by a bloody foam
The rooster’s song in the distance tore the hazy air
A sea of fog bathed the buildings,
And the dying ones in the depths of the hospices
Heaved their last moans in erratic hiccoughs.
The debauchers re-entered, broken by their labors.

Dawn shivers in her green and rose gown
Moving slowly along the deserted Seine,
And somber Paris, rubbing his eyes,
Grasped his tools, hard-working old man.

Le Crépuscule du matin
La diane chantait dans les cours des casernes,
Et le vent du matin soufflait sur les lanternes.

C'était l'heure où l'essaim des rêves malfaisants
Tord sur leurs oreillers les bruns adolescents;
Où, comme un oeil sanglant qui palpite et qui bouge,
La lampe sur le jour fait une tache rouge;
Où l'âme, sous le poids du corps revêche et lourd,
Imite les combats de la lampe et du jour.
Comme un visage en pleurs que les brises essuient,
L'air est plein du frisson des choses qui s'enfuient,
Et l'homme est las d'écrire et la femme d'aimer.

Les maisons çà et là commençaient à fumer.
Les femmes de plaisir, la paupière livide,
Bouche ouverte, dormaient de leur sommeil stupide;
Les pauvresses, traînant leurs seins maigres et froids,
Soufflaient sur leurs tisons et soufflaient sur leurs doigts.
C'était l'heure où parmi le froid et la lésine
S'aggravent les douleurs des femmes en gésine;
Comme un sanglot coupé par un sang écumeux
Le chant du coq au loin déchirait l'air brumeux
Une mer de brouillards baignait les édifices,
Et les agonisants dans le fond des hospices
Poussaient leur dernier râle en hoquets inégaux.
Les débauchés rentraient, brisés par leurs travaux.

L'aurore grelottante en robe rose et verte
S'avançait lentement sur la Seine déserte,
Et le sombre Paris, en se frottant les yeux
Empoignait ses outils, vieillard laborieux.
---

I will greet you again in April, when the sun is out and the world has thawed.

Rêve parisien

Holy Grail, my heart won't stop. Don't make me feel this way.

Parisian Dream

To Constantin Guys

I.
Of this terrible landscape,
Such as a mortal has never seen,
Again this morning the image
Vague and distant, ravishes me.

Sleep is full of miracles!
By an unusual whim
I have banished from these spectacles
The irregular vegetable,

And, painter proud of my genius,
I savored in my picture
The intoxicating monotony
Of metal, marble and water.

Babel of stairways and archways,
This was an infinite palace
Full of fountains and waterfalls
Falling into dull or burnished gold;

And heavy waterfalls,
Like curtains of crystal
Hung, dazzling,
From great metal walls.

Not trees, but colonnades
Surrounded the sleeping ponds
Where giant naiads,
Like women, mirrored themselves.

Sheets of water poured forth, blue,
Between red and green banks,
For millions of leagues,
Towards the borders of the universe.

There were incredible stones
And magic streams, there were
Immense glaciers dazzled
By all that they reflected!

Heedless and silent,
Ganges, in the firmament,
Pouring out the treasure of their urns
Into the diamond abyss.

Architect of my fairies,
I made, by my will,
Under a tunnel of gems
A tamed ocean to pass through;

And everything, even the color black,
Seems polished, clear, iridescent,
The liquid enshrined her glory
In the crystallized ray.

No star moreover, no relics
Of the sun, even at the bottom of the sky,
To illuminate these prodigies,
That shone with a personal fire!

And over these moving marvels
Glided (terrible novelty!
All for the eye, nothing for the ears!)
An eternal silence.

II.
In re-opening my flame-filled eyes
I have seen the horror of my hovel,
And felt, re-entering into my soul,
The point of cursed anxiety;

The pendulum with the gloomy accents
Brutally rang midday,
And the sky poured darkness
Over the sad drowsy world.

Rêve parisien

À Constantin Guys

I.
De ce terrible paysage,
Tel que jamais mortel n'en vit,
Ce matin encore l'image,
Vague et lointaine, me ravit.

Le sommeil est plein de miracles!
Par un caprice singulier
J'avais banni de ces spectacles
Le végétal irrégulier,

Et, peintre fier de mon génie,
Je savourais dans mon tableau
L'enivrante monotonie
Du métal, du marbre et de l'eau.

Babel d'escaliers et d'arcades,
C'était un palais infini
Plein de bassins et de cascades
Tombant dans l'or mat ou bruni;

Et des cataractes pesantes,
Comme des rideaux de cristal
Se suspendaient, éblouissantes,
À des murailles de métal.

Non d'arbres, mais de colonnades
Les étangs dormants s'entouraient
Où de gigantesques naïades,
Comme des femmes, se miraient.

Des nappes d'eau s'épanchaient, bleues,
Entre des quais roses et verts,
Pendant des millions de lieues,
Vers les confins de l'univers:

C'étaient des pierres inouïes
Et des flots magiques, c'étaient
D'immenses glaces éblouies
Par tout ce qu'elles reflétaient!

Insouciants et taciturnes,
Des Ganges, dans le firmament,
Versaient le trésor de leurs urnes
Dans des gouffres de diamant.

Architecte de mes féeries,
Je faisais, à ma volonté,
Sous un tunnel de pierreries
Passer un océan dompté;

Et tout, même la couleur noire,
Semblait fourbi, clair, irisé;
Le liquide enchâssait sa gloire
Dans le rayon cristallisé.

Nul astre d'ailleurs, nuls vestiges
De soleil, même au bas du ciel,
Pour illuminer ces prodiges,
Qui brillaient d'un feu personnel!

Et sur ces mouvantes merveilles
Planait (terrible nouveauté!
Tout pour l'oeil, rien pour les oreilles!)
Un silence d'éternité.

II.
En rouvrant mes yeux pleins de flamme
J'ai vu l'horreur de mon taudis,
Et senti, rentrant dans mon âme,
La pointe des soucis maudits;

La pendule aux accents funèbres
Sonnait brutalement midi,
Et le ciel versait des ténèbres
Sur le triste monde engourdi.
---
I don't want it. I don't get it. What about my ideal form is so goddamn inadequate all of a sudden? Waste your time, your time. Sleep, smile. Alexandria.

Brumes et pluies

Sweet slide under sheets in the grey of morning. Yesterday it rained. Where is my warm atmosphere? Patience, patience. I have no reason to be blue. Sleepiness leads to weird sadness in the dark hours. But he always manages to chase it away. I know how it will end and that's why I am not afraid.

Mist and Rain
Oh ends of autumn, winters, springtimes soaked with mud,
Drowsing seasons! I love you and praise you
For enveloping thus my heart and my mind
In a vaporous shroud and a muddled grave.

In that great field where the cold south wind plays,
Where the weathervane grows hoarse in the long nights,
Better than in times of warm revival my soul
Will open widely its raven wings.

Nothing is sweeter to a heart full of gloomy things,
And on which the cold has long descended,
Oh pale seasons, queens of our climates,

Than the permanent look of your pale darknesses,
—If this is not, on a moonless evening, two by two,
Of pain sleeping on a risky bed.

Brumes et pluies
Ô fins d'automne, hivers, printemps trempés de boue,
Endormeuses saisons! je vous aime et vous loue
D'envelopper ainsi mon coeur et mon cerveau
D'un linceul vaporeux et d'un vague tombeau.

Dans cette grande plaine où l'autan froid se joue,
Où par les longues nuits la girouette s'enroue,
Mon âme mieux qu'au temps du tiède renouveau
Ouvrira largement ses ailes de corbeau.

Rien n'est plus doux au coeur plein de choses funèbres,
Et sur qui dès longtemps descendent les frimas,
Ô blafardes saisons, reines de nos climats,

Que l'aspect permanent de vos pâles ténèbres,
— Si ce n'est, par un soir sans lune, deux à deux,
D'endormir la douleur sur un lit hasardeux.

---

I want to crawl back into my bed.
My equinox, my friend.

Je n'ai pas oublié/La servante au grand coeur

Oh my sweet, somber beautiful one. The days of throat-choking passion have passed and are replaced by big plans and doors closing. My life here is almost over. The jury is out and I am in. Too much imbibing and a game of hide-and-seek; I fell, I stood. I will bid them goodbye: the endearing, eccentric, asinine, wonderful people who I cherish and adore above all others. Where will you go? When I came here I found my home and now that I must leave it I get a little sad inside. R. and I talked about this the other night as the rain drowned our dark little porch. It will be over soon enough and I will not make the same mistakes as before. Christ, I am growing up. Who would have ever thought that?

I have not forgotten, near the city
I have not forgotten, near the city,
Our white house, small but calm,
Her plaster Pomona and her old Venus
Hiding their naked limbs in a meager grove,
And the sun, the evening, streaming and superb,
That, behind the window where her shower broke
Seemed, great open eye in the curious heaven,
To contemplate our long and silent dinners,
Spreading widely her beautiful candle-lights
Over the frugal tablecloth and the twill curtains.

Je n'ai pas oublié, voisine de la ville
Je n'ai pas oublié, voisine de la ville,
Notre blanche maison, petite mais tranquille;
Sa Pomone de plâtre et sa vieille Vénus
Dans un bosquet chétif cachant leurs membres nus,
Et le soleil, le soir, ruisselant et superbe,
Qui, derrière la vitre où se brisait sa gerbe
Semblait, grand oeil ouvert dans le ciel curieux,
Contempler nos dîners longs et silencieux,
Répandant largement ses beaux reflets de cierge
Sur la nappe frugale et les rideaux de serge.


The greathearted servant of whom you were jealous
The greathearted servant of whom you were jealous,
And who sleeps her sleep under humble grass,
We must however bring her some flowers,
The dead, the poor dead, have great pains,
And when October breathes, pruner of old trees,
His melancholy wind around their marbles,
Certainly, they mist find the living most ungrateful,
Sleeping, as they do, warmly in their sheets,
While, devoured by black dreams,
Without bedfellow, without good conversation,
Frozen old skeletons worked by the worm,
Feel the winter snows dripping
And the century flowing, without friends or family
Replacing the tatters that hang on their graves.
When the log whistles and sings, if the evening
Calms, I saw her sitting in the armchair,
If, on a cold blue night in December,
I found her crouching in a corner of my chamber,
Solemn, and coming from the depths of her eternal bed
To protect the grown child with her motherly eye,
What could I answer to that pious soul,
Seeing tears fall from her sunken eyelids?

La servante au grand coeur dont vous étiez jalouse
La servante au grand coeur dont vous étiez jalouse,
Et qui dort son sommeil sous une humble pelouse,
Nous devrions pourtant lui porter quelques fleurs.
Les morts, les pauvres morts, ont de grandes douleurs,
Et quand Octobre souffle, émondeur des vieux arbres,
Son vent mélancolique à l'entour de leurs marbres,
Certe, ils doivent trouver les vivants bien ingrats,
À dormir, comme ils font, chaudement dans leurs draps,
Tandis que, dévorés de noires songeries,
Sans compagnon de lit, sans bonnes causeries,
Vieux squelettes gelés travaillés par le ver,
Ils sentent s'égoutter les neiges de l'hiver
Et le siècle couler, sans qu'amis ni famille
Remplacent les lambeaux qui pendent à leur grille.
Lorsque la bûche siffle et chante, si le soir
Calme, dans le fauteuil je la voyais s'asseoir,
Si, par une nuit bleue et froide de décembre,
Je la trouvais tapie en un coin de ma chambre,
Grave, et venant du fond de son lit éternel
Couver l'enfant grandi de son oeil maternel,
Que pourrais-je répondre à cette âme pieuse,
Voyant tomber des pleurs de sa paupière creuse?
---
And all of this I cannot and will not ever forget.

L'Amour du mensonge

Paraskevidekatriaphobia? Maybe not today. One month deep and perhaps a little wiser and more committed. The survey is out, my fingers are crossed. My mind is in a hundred different places, but not where it should be. I can see the passions bloom, but domesticity is a deadly force. Sushi over sex. Television before tenderness. But what's the alternative? Melodrama out the ears? No. I will keep things as they should be. I don't mind. He's not a trophy, just a vessel of warmth. Eh.

As the South comes closer I think to you, and how this could have been different. I am happy where I am.

The Love of Lies
When I see you pass, oh my lazy beloved,
To the song of the instruments that the ceiling shatters
Suspending your slow and harmonious walk,
And displaying the ennui of your penetrating gaze;

When I contemplate, in the gaslight that colors it,
Your pale brow, embellished by morbid appeal,
Where the evening torches ignite a dawn,
And your eyes appealing like those of a portrait,

I say to myself: How she is beautiful! And oddly fresh!
Massive memory, heavy and royal tower,
Crowns her, and her heart, bruised like a peach,
Is ripe, like her body, for the skillful lover.

Are you the autumn fruit with the sovereign flavor?
Are you a gloomy vase waiting for a few tears,
Perfume that makes one dream of distant oasises,
Soft pillow, or basket of flowers?

I know that there are eyes, of deepest melancholy,
That contain no precious secrets;
Beautiful boxes without jewels, medallions without relics,
Emptier, deeper than yourself, oh Heaven!

But does it not suffice that you are the semblance,
That delights a heart that runs from the truth?
What importance your stupidity or your indifference?
Mask or pretence, hail! I adore your beauty.


L'Amour du mensonge
Quand je te vois passer, ô ma chère indolente,
Au chant des instruments qui se brise au plafond
Suspendant ton allure harmonieuse et lente,
Et promenant l'ennui de ton regard profond;

Quand je contemple, aux feux du gaz qui le colore,
Ton front pâle, embelli par un morbide attrait,
Où les torches du soir allument une aurore,
Et tes yeux attirants comme ceux d'un portrait,

Je me dis: Qu'elle est belle! et bizarrement fraîche!
Le souvenir massif, royale et lourde tour,
La couronne, et son coeur, meurtri comme une pêche,
Est mûr, comme son corps, pour le savant amour.

Es-tu le fruit d'automne aux saveurs souveraines?
Es-tu vase funèbre attendant quelques pleurs,
Parfum qui fait rêver aux oasis lointaines,
Oreiller caressant, ou corbeille de fleurs?

Je sais qu'il est des yeux, des plus mélancoliques,
Qui ne recèlent point de secrets précieux;
Beaux écrins sans joyaux, médaillons sans reliques,
Plus vides, plus profonds que vous-mêmes, ô Cieux!

Mais ne suffit-il pas que tu sois l'apparence,
Pour réjouir un coeur qui fuit la vérité?
Qu'importe ta bêtise ou ton indifférence?
Masque ou décor, salut! J'adore ta beauté.
---

You are a symbol of my youth and that can never pass away.

Danse macabre

A week ago today the world was coated in ice and the wind kept us confined to our cozy little bed. The week itself was full of indifference but the weekend shone. The sun hid but the air was warm and soft and fucking beautiful. Saturday: we ran in the cool of the evening and kissed under the indifferent sky, our spandex serving a different function. The bay was awash with new beginnings and good news. Grapefruit, running shoes, and his perfect freckled shoulders and eyes that match mine. What else do I need? Sunday: perfect laziness and stealth, languid Asia pushing her way back into our subconscious and the beer-flavored water seeping into our bloodstreams. The air smelled like everything I have ever loved and as the summer fast approaches he holds my hand and tells me that the warmth months will be the most beautiful. I believe him, I believe everyone and I want to shout with glee. The last several months have not been in vain. I am happy, I am happy.

Baudelaire, your imagery makes me melt, but yet we grow apart. It's almost time for this labor to end. The next one to Ernest Christophe, who you will also see here.

Danse macabre

To Ernest Christophe

Proud, as much as a living one, of her noble stature
With her large bouquet, her handkerchief and her gloves
She has the nonchalance and the flippancy
Of a skinny coquette with eccentric airs.

Did one ever see a slimmer waist at a ball?
Her excessive dress, in its royal fullness,
Collapses abundantly over a dry foot pinched
By a tasseled slipped, pretty as a flower.

The hive that plays along the edge of the clavicle,
Like a lustful stream that rubs the rocks,
Modesty defends from ridiculous laughs
The gloomy charms that she keeps hidden.

Her deep eyes are made from emptiness and darkness,
And her skull, artfully coiffed with flowers,
Oscillates idly over her frail vertebra.
Oh charms of nothingness crazily clothed.

No one will call you a caricature,
Who does not understand, drunken lovers of flesh,
The nameless elegance of the human frame.
You respond, great skeleton, to my most beloved taste!

Have you come to disturb, with your powerful grimace,
The celebration of Life? Or does some old desire,
Hastening again your living carcass,
Push you, credulous, into the Sabbath of Pleasure?

In the song of the violins, in the flames of the candles,
Do you hope to chase your jeering nightmare away
And have you come to ask the torrent of orgies
To cool the hell ignited in your heart?

Inexhaustible well of foolishness and faults!
Eternal alembic of ancient grief!
Toward the curved trellis of your ribs
I see, wandering again, the insatiable serpent.

To speak truly, I fear that your vanity
Will not find a price worthy of its efforts
Who, among these mortal hearts, understands mockery?
The charms of horror only inebriate the strong!


The abyss of your eyes, full of horrible thoughts,
Exhales the dizziness, and the careful dancers
Cannot contemplate without bitter nausea
The eternal smile of your thirty-two teeth.

Yet, who has not gripped a skeleton in his arms,
And who is not nourished by the things of the tomb?
What importance the perfume, the outfit or the dress?
He who turns up his nose shows that he believes himself beautiful.

Noseless Bayadere, irresistible gouge,
Say then to these dancers who were offended:
“Proud sweethearts, despite the art of powders and rouge
You all smell of death! Oh musky skeletons,

Withered Antinour, smooth-cheeked dandy,
Varnished corpses, leafless lovelaces,
The universal swing of the dance of death
Leads you to places which you know not!

From the cold quays of the Seine to the burning banks of the Ganges,
The mortal herd jumps and swoons, without seeing
The trumpet of the Angel through a hole in the ceiling
Gaping ominously like a black musket.

In all climates, under all suns, Death admires you
In your contortions, ridiculous Humanity
And often, like you, perfuming herself with myrrh,
Mixes her irony with your insanity!”


Danse macabre

À Ernest Christophe

Fière, autant qu'un vivant, de sa noble stature
Avec son gros bouquet, son mouchoir et ses gants
Elle a la nonchalance et la désinvolture
D'une coquette maigre aux airs extravagants.

Vit-on jamais au bal une taille plus mince?
Sa robe exagérée, en sa royale ampleur,
S'écroule abondamment sur un pied sec que pince
Un soulier pomponné, joli comme une fleur.

La ruche qui se joue au bord des clavicules,
Comme un ruisseau lascif qui se frotte au rocher,
Défend pudiquement des lazzi ridicules
Les funèbres appas qu'elle tient à cacher.

Ses yeux profonds sont faits de vide et de ténèbres,
Et son crâne, de fleurs artistement coiffé,
Oscille mollement sur ses frêles vertèbres.
Ô charme d'un néant follement attifé.

Aucuns t'appelleront une caricature,
Qui ne comprennent pas, amants ivres de chair,
L'élégance sans nom de l'humaine armature.
Tu réponds, grand squelette, à mon goût le plus cher!

Viens-tu troubler, avec ta puissante grimace,
La fête de la Vie? ou quelque vieux désir,
Eperonnant encor ta vivante carcasse,
Te pousse-t-il, crédule, au sabbat du Plaisir?

Au chant des violons, aux flammes des bougies,
Espères-tu chasser ton cauchemar moqueur,
Et viens-tu demander au torrent des orgies
De rafraîchir l'enfer allumé dans ton coeur?

Inépuisable puits de sottise et de fautes!
De l'antique douleur éternel alambic!
À travers le treillis recourbé de tes côtes
Je vois, errant encor, l'insatiable aspic.

Pour dire vrai, je crains que ta coquetterie
Ne trouve pas un prix digne de ses efforts
Qui, de ces coeurs mortels, entend la raillerie?
Les charmes de l'horreur n'enivrent que les forts!

Le gouffre de tes yeux, plein d'horribles pensées,
Exhale le vertige, et les danseurs prudents
Ne contempleront pas sans d'amères nausées
Le sourire éternel de tes trente-deux dents.

Pourtant, qui n'a serré dans ses bras un squelette,
Et qui ne s'est nourri des choses du tombeau?
Qu'importe le parfum, l'habit ou la toilette?
Qui fait le dégoûté montre qu'il se croit beau.

Bayadère sans nez, irrésistible gouge,
Dis donc à ces danseurs qui font les offusqués:
«Fiers mignons, malgré l'art des poudres et du rouge
Vous sentez tous la mort! Ô squelettes musqués,

Antinoüs flétris, dandys à face glabre,
Cadavres vernissés, lovelaces chenus,
Le branle universel de la danse macabre
Vous entraîne en des lieux qui ne sont pas connus!

Des quais froids de la Seine aux bords brûlants du Gange,
Le troupeau mortel saute et se pâme, sans voir
Dans un trou du plafond la trompette de l'Ange
Sinistrement béante ainsi qu'un tromblon noir.

En tout climat, sous tout soleil, la Mort t'admire
En tes contorsions, risible Humanité
Et souvent, comme toi, se parfumant de myrrhe,
Mêle son ironie à ton insanité!»
---

No, you are not everything to me, but I will enjoy your existence so long as it coincides with mine.

Le Jeu

Here it goes. Post number one hundred. I think a lot has changed since I started, most notably since the beginning of this current calendar year. It started out rough but now it's nothing but (hopefully) smooth sailing into the great, beautiful unknown.

The other night I heard the bad news. A. said it was only for a few hours so my heart got quieter and I drank enough water to clear my head. That was the night I felt my tears burn his skin like acid. Oh lame. I thank Apollo that he understood. I am no longer soaked full of ennui. This is a new feeling. I haven't felt it in awhile, perhaps never before. Peace like a river, or some equally placid body of water.

I will give up the wine and the ghost. I will celebrate everything this beautiful life has given me.

Gambling
In the faded armchairs old courtesans,
Pale, eyebrows painted, eyes tender and fatal,
Simpering, and making from their skinny ears
A clink of stone and metal fall;

Around the green tables lipless faces,
Colorless faces, toothless jaws,
And fingers convulsed with a hellish fever,
Searching the empty pocket or the beating breast;

Under the dirty ceilings a row of pale lights
And enormous oil lamps project their glow
Onto the dark brows of celebrated poets
Who come to squander their blood-sweat;

Here is that black picture that in a nocturnal dream
I saw unwind before my discerning eye.
Myself, in a corner of the silent den,
I see myself leaning, cold, mute, envious,

Envious of these peoples’ stubborn passion,
Of these old whores’ gloomy gaiety,
And all cheerfully dealing in my face,
The one his old honor, the other her beauty!

And my heart was alarmed by envying many a poor man
Racing with fervor to the gaping abyss,
And who, drunk from his blood, would prefer in sum
Pain to death and hell to nothingness!

Le Jeu
Dans des fauteuils fanés des courtisanes vieilles,
Pâles, le sourcil peint, l'oeil câlin et fatal,
Minaudant, et faisant de leurs maigres oreilles
Tomber un cliquetis de pierre et de métal;

Autour des verts tapis des visages sans lèvre,
Des lèvres sans couleur, des mâchoires sans dent,
Et des doigts convulsés d'une infernale fièvre,
Fouillant la poche vide ou le sein palpitant;

Sous de sales plafonds un rang de pâles lustres
Et d'énormes quinquets projetant leurs lueurs
Sur des fronts ténébreux de poètes illustres
Qui viennent gaspiller leurs sanglantes sueurs;

Voilà le noir tableau qu'en un rêve nocturne
Je vis se dérouler sous mon oeil clairvoyant.
Moi-même, dans un coin de l'antre taciturne,
Je me vis accoudé, froid, muet, enviant,

Enviant de ces gens la passion tenace,
De ces vieilles putains la funèbre gaieté,
Et tous gaillardement trafiquant à ma face,
L'un de son vieil honneur, l'autre de sa beauté!

Et mon coeur s'effraya d'envier maint pauvre homme
Courant avec ferveur à l'abîme béant,
Et qui, soûl de son sang, préférerait en somme
La douleur à la mort et l'enfer au néant!
---

I can feel the warmth, my one and only. Though perhaps not for long. I can be so sickeningly selfish. Yes.