The Death of the Poor, Poem by Charles Baudelaire

Poem by Charles Baudelaire Collection The Flowers of EvilThemes DeathPeriod 19th century

It is Death that consoles—alas!—and makes us live;
It is the goal of life, and it is the only hope
Which, like an elixir, rises in us and inebriates us,
And gives us the heart to walk until evening;

Through the storm, and the snow, and the frost,
It is the vibrant clarity on our black horizon;
It is the famous inn inscribed in the book,
Where we may eat, and sleep, and sit down;

It is an Angel who holds in his magnetic fingers
The sleep and the gift of ecstatic dreams,
And who remakes the bed of the poor and naked;

It is the glory of the Gods, it is the mystic granary,
It is the purse of the poor and their ancient homeland,
It is the portico open onto the unknown Heavens!

Charles Baudelaire

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

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