Good Fortune, Poem by Charles Cros

To Théodore de Banville

Head bowed low,
Eye-bruised,
Thus lying down,
What do you await?

Bosom that quivers,
Nervous tears,
Wild thicket
Of hair,

Shivers of swans
On your flanks,
These are signs
Too telling.

You are but mad
About your body.
Your soul flies
Outside.

Let another come,
You will make
The same chain
Of your arms.

I hate doubt,
And, prouder,
I want you whole,
Soul and flesh.

It is I (not the other!)
Who embraces you
And who wallows
On your breasts.

Know, panther,
Your conqueror
Or I silence
Your languor.

Bind and strap
Your mind,
Or I strangle you
In your bed.

Charles Cros

Translation generated by Poésies 123 with assistance from the deepseek-chat artificial-intelligence model.

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