The Crown, Poem by Emile Verhaeren

Poem by Emile Verhaeren Period 19th century

And I would also like my crown of thorns
And for each thought, one, red, through
The forehead, to the brain, to the frail roots
where writhe the ills and the dreams forged
In me, by me. I would like it like a rage,
Like a bush of ebony on fire, like manes
Of lightning and flames, combed by savage wind;
And they would be my vain and mystic desires,
My science of weariness, my tendernesses beaten
By flagellant remorse, my shimmering wills
Of murder and madness and my stubborn hatreds
That with its darts and its claws, it would bite me.
And, more intimately still, my old death rattles
Toward bellies, muzzled with heavy golden fleeces,
And my vices of fingers and of cloistered lips
And my last shudders of nerves and of sobs
And, deeper still, the very rut of my torture,
And all at last! O crown of my sorrow
And of my joy, O crown of dictatorship
Standing on my two eyes, my mouth and my brain
O the crown in dream on my somnambulant forehead,
Hallucinate me then with your absurdity;
And crown me your suffering and ridiculous king.

Emile Verhaeren

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

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