Lethe
Come to my
heart, you
tiger I adore.
You sullen
monster, cruel and speechless
spirit;
Into the thickness of your
heavy mane
I want to
plunge my trembling fingers' grip.
I want to hide the
throbbing of my
head
In your
perfume, under those
pettticoats,
And
breathe the
musky scent of our old
love,
The fading
fragrance of the
dying rose.
I want to sleep! to sleep and not to
live!
And in a
sleep as
sweet as death, to
dream
Of spreading out my
kisses without
shame
On your
smooth body, bright with
copper sheen.
If I would
swallow dwon my softened
sobs
It must be in your
bed's
profound abyss--
Forgetfulness is
moistening your
breath
Lethe itself runs
smoothly in your
kiss.
My
destiny, from now on my
delight,
Is to
obey as one who has been sent
To
guiltless martyrdom, when all the while
His
passion fans the
flames of his
torment.
My
lips will suck the
cure for
bitterness:
Oblivion,
nepenthe has its
start
In the
betwitching teats of those
hard breasts,
That never have been
harbour of a
heart.
--
Charles Baudelaire, from
Les Fleurs du Mal (
The Flowers of Evil)