O muse of my heart, lover of palaces,
Will you have, when January unleashes its North Winds,
During the black tedium of snowy evenings,
A brand to warm your two violet feet?
Will you then revive your marbled shoulders
With the nocturnal rays that pierce the shutters?
Feeling your purse as empty as your palace,
Will you harvest the gold of the azure vaults?
To earn your daily bread, you must,
Like an altar boy, swing the censer,
Sing Te Deums in which you scarcely believe,
Or, a fasting mountebank, display your charms
And your laughter soaked in tears no one sees,
To make the rabble’s spleen blossom.
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-the-venal-muse-charles-baudelaire/
