Book: The flowers of evil

Nature - a strict temple, where the structure of living columns
Sometimes a slightly intelligible sound sneaks away;
Forests of symbols wanders, drowns in their thickets
An embarrassed man, their gaze is amused.

Whose spirit rises high above the earth!

Poet in prison, sick, unshaven, emaciated,
Trampling with his foot the leaves of the poem unborn,
He watches in despair, as in the abyss, all trembling,
His soul slides down the terrible stairs.
Around teasing, laughing faces,
In consciousness wild, ridiculous swarming,
Drills The Brain of Somnenya, and The Causeless Fear,
Ugly, multifaceted, oppressed in the dark.
And this pernicious genius locked in a hole,
Among the swirling, mocking visions, -
A dreamer, terrified awakened from sleep,
Whose shocked mind is given to madness, -
Here is the image of the Soul that is immersed in darkness
And in the four walls of Reality beats.

Have you, the angel of charm, lost count of wrinkles?
Did the threats of old age chill you?
There in the gentle depths of love-blue eyes
You haven't read the condescension to gray hair.
Have you, the angel of charm, lost count of wrinkles?

Are you, the angel of meekness, familiar with the secret of anger?
With the poison of burning tears and rage without strength?
A night mute from the graves brought to you
Revenge, that black annoying guest?
Are you, the angel of meekness, familiar with the secret of anger?

Have you, angel of joy, ever suffered?

Are you God or Satan? Are you angel or Siren?
Not all the same: only you, Queen Beauty,
You free the world from painful captivity,
Send incense and sounds and colors!

Yes, my cradle was in the library;
Dust, Babylon volumes, parchment, silence,
Novels, dictionaries, Latins and Greeks...
I, as in folio, was exalted then.
Two voices talked to me about life.
One, insidious, firm, said to me, "The world is a pie.
Dispel your appetite. At the cost of their efforts
You will know the sweetness of all that God has created."
Another shouted: "Swim in bottomless fairy tales
Over what is conceivable, over what measures the meter."
Ah, that voice sang, bayukal in strange caresses,
Scary and exciting, like winds from the embankment,
Like a phantom who came out of nowhere.
I said, "I'm going!" and that's me then.
Suddenly I felt the pain and the fate that is everywhere
I carry now with me, I carry always, always...
I see new constellations of diamonds
In the blackest abyss of dreams, behind the appearance of things;
Slave of clairvoyance and martyr of ecstasies,
I drag with me indestructible snakes.
And it has been since, as a prophet, wandering;
In the deserts and seas, I, as a prophet, am alone.
I laugh in mourning, I cry on holidays
And I find the beauty in the taste of bitter wines.
To me, the facts seem like some kind of noisy lie,
Counting the stars in the darkness, I get into the moat...
But the Voice whispers to me, "Keep your dreams, crazy!
Clever people do not know such beautiful dreams..."

To pay tribute, to you by fate
Two fields are given, man;
You've been the steel of reason all ages.
They should be cut like a ploy.
To ear rye or rose bush
Grow up in this meager field,
You have to pour as much as you can.
To the ground of bitter, dirty tears.
Art and Love - those nivas! -
A terrible hour will strike, and here it is.
Fate to you, O lazy slave,
He will pronounce his sentence.
At that hour prepare barns of bread,
Cats are lush flowers,
That the fruits of your labors
The choir of Angels glorified from heaven!

Happy child! Why do you burn with desire?
To see France pierced by suffering,
Where people live closely; why your fate
Hurry to hand over to the hands of the rowers and the ship,
Say goodbye forever to your favorite tamarin?
Half-dressed, under a ghostly muslin,
Trembling from the cold and blizzard of snow,
You will remember the past and the free land of the native;
And your free torso will be squeezed by the vise of the corset,
You will trade yourself - and for it
In the dens of the city shelter you will found your own,
Coconut trees are looking for in the mist of raw!

The poet, here is your image! You without effort
Fly in the clouds, amid thunder and lightning,
But you interfere with giant wings
The bottom go, in the crowd, amid the booing fools.

As breast, faded from the dirty caresses, nibbles
In a miserable den another reveler idle,
We of sweets and new secrets dirty
Searching, squeezing the flesh like an overripe fruit.

Folly, pettiness, and greed, and debauchery
And soul oppress us, and the body corrode;
We pangs of torture, delight,
Like insects, stinging and sour.

As charming as the real innocence, is so annoying and sickening antics that seem naive.