The Cat (2), Poem by Charles Baudelaire

Within my brain there strolls
As in its own apartment,
A handsome cat, strong, gentle and charming.
When it meows, one scarcely hears it,

So tender and discreet is its timbre;
But whether its voice grows soft or growls,
It is always rich and deep.
That is its charm and its secret.

This voice, which pearls and filters
Into my darkest depths,
Fills me like a many-voiced verse
And delights me like a philter.

It lulls the cruelest ills to sleep
And contains all ecstasies;
To utter the longest phrases,
It has no need of words.

No, there is no bow that bites
Upon my heart, that perfect instrument,
And makes it sing more royally
Its most vibrant string,

Than your voice, mysterious cat,
Seraphic cat, strange cat,
In whom all is, as in an angel,
As subtle as it is harmonious!

From its blond and brown fur
Comes a perfume so sweet that one evening
I was embalmed by it, for having
Caressed it once, only once.

It is the familiar spirit of the place;
It judges, presides, inspires
All things within its empire;
Perhaps it is a fairy, perhaps a god?

When my eyes, toward this cat I love,
Drawn as if by a magnet,
Turn back obediently
And I look into myself,

I see with astonishment
The fire of its pale pupils,
Clear beacons, living opals,
Which gaze at me fixedly.

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-cat-2-charles-baudelaire/