The Fountain of Blood

It seems to me sometimes that my blood runs in rivers,
In the same way as a fountain does with rhythmic shivers.
I hear well that which flows with a long sigh,
But grapple in vain for the wound to find.

Across the city, in enclosed highland,
It goes away, transforming the pavement stones into islands,
Refreshing the thirst of each godly design,
And everywhere coloring nature carmine.

I often ask of a cunning liquor
To tranquilize for one day the terror that weakens me
Wine renders the eye more clear and the ear more keen!

I looked for in love a forgetful slumber;
But love for me is only but a mattress of thorns
Made in order to intoxicate these cruel whores.

-Charles Baudelaire
Translated by J.K.Ellis 04/02/08

The Fountain of Blood

It seems to me sometimes that my blood runs in rivers,
In the same way as a fountain does with rhythmic sobs.
I hear well that which flows with a long murmur,
But I touch myself in vain to find the wound.

Across the city, in a an enclosed field,
It courses, transforming the pavement stones into islands,
Refreshing the thirst of each creature,
And everywhere coloring nature red.

I often ask of cunning wines
To send to sleep for one day the terror that undermine me
Wine renders the eye more clear and the ear more keen!

I looked for in love a forgetful sleep;
But love for me is only but a mattress of needles
Made in order to intoxicate these cruel harlots.

-Charles Baudelaire
Translated by J.K.Ellis 04/02/08

La Fontaine de Sang

Il me semble parfois que mon sang coule à flots,
Ainsi qu'une fontaine aux rythmiques sanglots.
Je l'entends bien qui coule avec un long murmure,
Mais je me tâte en vain pour trouver la blessure.

À travers la cité, comme dans un champ clos,
Il s'en va, transformant les pavés en îlots,
Désaltérant la soif de chaque créature,
Et partout colorant en rouge la nature.

J'ai demandé souvent à des vins captieux
D'endormir pour un jour la terreur qui me mine;
Le vin rend l'oeil plus clair et l'oreille plus fine!

J'ai cherché dans l'amour un sommeil oublieux;
Mais l'amour n'est pour moi qu'un matelas d'aiguilles
Fait pour donner à boire à ces cruelles filles!

-Charles Baudelaire