Français
Español
Italiano
Deutsch
Português
When, by a decree of the supreme powers,
The Poet appears in this world of ennui,
His mother, terrified and full of blasphemies,
Clenches her fists at God, who takes pity on her:
– “” Ah! why did I not give birth to a knot of vipers,
Rather than nourish this mockery!
Cursed be the night with ephemeral pleasures
Where my womb conceived my expiation!
Since you have chosen me among all women
To be the disgust of my sad husband,
And since I cannot cast into the flames,
Like a love letter, this stunted monster,
I will make your hatred that overwhelms me rebound
Upon the cursed instrument of your wickedness,
And I will twist so well this miserable tree,
That it cannot put forth its pestilent buds! “”
She thus swallows back the foam of her hatred,
And, not understanding the eternal designs,
She herself prepares in the depths of Gehenna
The pyres consecrated to maternal crimes.
Yet, under the invisible tutelage of an Angel,
The disinherited Child becomes drunk with sunlight,
And in all that he drinks and in all that he eats
Finds again ambrosia and the vermilion nectar.
He plays with the wind, converses with the cloud,
And becomes drunk singing of the way of the cross;
And the Spirit that follows him in his pilgrimage
Weeps to see him gay as a bird of the woods.
All those he wishes to love observe him with fear,
Or else, emboldened by his tranquility,
Seek who will know how to draw a complaint from him,
And make on him the trial of their ferocity.
In the bread and wine destined for his mouth
They mix ashes with impure spittings;
With hypocrisy they throw away what he touches,
And accuse themselves of having set their feet in his steps.
His wife goes crying in the public squares:
“” Since he finds me beautiful enough to adore me,
I will do the trade of ancient idols,
And like them I want to have myself regilded;
And I will get drunk on nard, incense, myrrh,
On genuflections, meats and wines,
To know if I can in a heart that admires me
Usurp while laughing the divine homages!
And, when I grow weary of these impious farces,
I will place on him my frail and strong hand;
And my nails, like the nails of harpies,
Will know how to clear a path to his heart.
Like a very young bird that trembles and palpitates,
I will tear this heart all red from his breast,
And, to satiate my favorite beast,
I will throw it to it on the ground with disdain! “”
Toward Heaven, where his eye sees a splendid throne,
The serene Poet raises his pious arms,
And the vast lightnings of his lucid spirit
Conceal from him the aspect of the furious peoples:
– “” Be blessed, my God, who give suffering
As a divine remedy for our impurities
And as the best and purest essence
That prepares the strong for holy voluptuousness!
I know that you keep a place for the Poet
In the blessed ranks of the holy Legions,
And that you invite him to the eternal feast,
Of Thrones, Virtues, Dominations.
I know that sorrow is the unique nobility
Where earth and hells will never bite,
And that to weave my mystic crown
All times and all universes must be imposed.
But the lost jewels of ancient Palmyra,
The unknown metals, the pearls of the sea,
Mounted by your hand, could not suffice
For this beautiful diadem, dazzling and clear;
For it will be made only of pure light,
Drawn from the holy hearth of primal rays,
And of which mortal eyes, in their full splendor,
Are only darkened and plaintive mirrors! “”
Charles Baudelaire
Translation generated by Poésies 123 with assistance from the deepseek-chat artificial-intelligence model.
Text published on Poésies 123: https://www.poesies123.com/en/poem-benediction-charles-baudelaire/