Posted by: W. E. Poplaski | March 7, 2009


by Charles Baudelaire (1821 – 1867).


The Enemy


My youth was nothing but a black storm

Crossed now and then by brilliant suns.

The thunder and the rain so ravage the shores

Nothing’s left of the fruit my garden held once.


I should employ the rake and the plow,                                                   5

Having reached the autumn of ideas,

To restore this inundated ground

Where the deep grooves of water form tombs in the lees.


And who knows if the new flowers you dreamed

Will find in a soil stripped and cleaned                                                     10

The mystic nourishment that fortifies?


—O Sorrow—O Sorrow—Time consumes Life,

And the obscure enemy that gnaws at my heart

Uses the blood that I lose to play my part.


(transl. by  William A. Sigler)


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