Saturday, July 15, 2006


* Come to my heart, cruel, insensible one, Adored tiger, monster with the indolent air; I would for a long time plunge my trembling fingers Into the heavy tresses of your hair; And in your garments that exhale your perfume I would bury my aching head, And breathe, like a withered flower, The sweet, stale reek of my love that is dead. I want to sleep! sleep rather than live! And in a slumber, dubious as the tomb's, I would lavish my kisses without remorse Upon the burnished copper of your limbs. To swallow my abated sobs Nothing equals your bed's abyss; Forgetfulness dwells in your mouth, And Lethe flows from your kiss. My destiny, henceforth my pleasure, I shall obey, predestined instrument, Docile martyr, condemned innocent, Whose fervour but augments his torment. I shall suck, to drown my rancour, Nepenthe, hemlock, an opiate, At the charming tips of this pointed breast That has never imprisoned a heart. * Lethe, by Charles Baudelaire

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