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To Ernest Christophe
Proud, as a living being, of her noble stature,
With her big bouquet, her handkerchief and gloves,
She has the nonchalance and the casual ease
Of a thin coquette with extravagant airs.
Did one ever see at the ball a slimmer waist?
Her exaggerated dress, in its royal fullness,
Collapses abundantly over a dry foot pinched
By a beribboned shoe, pretty as a flower.
The ruff that plays at the edge of her collarbones,
Like a lascivious stream rubbing against the rock,
Modestly defends from ridiculous mockeries
The funeral charms she insists on hiding.
Her deep eyes are made of emptiness and darkness,
And her skull, artistically adorned with flowers,
Sways softly on her frail vertebrae.
O charm of a void madly decked out.
Some will call you a caricature,
Who do not understand, lovers drunk on flesh,
The nameless elegance of the human frame.
You answer, great skeleton, to my dearest taste!
Do you come to disturb, with your powerful grimace,
The feast of Life? or does some old desire,
Still spurring your living carcass,
Drive you, credulous, to the sabbath of Pleasure?
At the song of violins, at the flames of candles,
Do you hope to drive away your mocking nightmare,
And do you come to ask the torrent of orgies
To refresh the hell lit in your heart?
Inexhaustible well of folly and faults!
Of ancient sorrow eternal alembic!
Through the curved trellis of your ribs
I see, still wandering, the insatiable asp.
To tell the truth, I fear that your coquetry
May not find a price worthy of its efforts;
Who, among these mortal hearts, understands the mockery?
The charms of horror intoxicate only the strong!
The gulf of your eyes, full of horrible thoughts,
Exhales vertigo, and prudent dancers
Will not contemplate without bitter nausea
The eternal smile of your thirty-two teeth.
Yet, who has not clasped a skeleton in his arms,
And who has not fed on the things of the tomb?
What matters the perfume, the coat or the attire?
Who acts disgusted shows he thinks himself handsome.
Nose-less bayadere, irresistible slut,
Tell then to these dancers who act offended:
“Proud dandies, despite the art of powders and rouge,
You all smell of death! O musked skeletons,
Faded Antinoüs, dandies, with smooth faces,
Varnished cadavers, hoary lovelaces,
The universal sway of the dance of death
Carries you off to places that are not known!
From the cold quays of the Seine to the burning banks of the Ganges,
The mortal flock leaps and swoons, without seeing
In a hole in the ceiling the trumpet of the Angel
Sinisterly gaping like a black blunderbuss.
In every climate, under every sun, Death admires you
In your contortions, laughable Humanity,
And often, like you, perfuming herself with myrrh,
Mingles her irony with your insanity!”
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-danse-macabre-charles-baudelaire/