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A poem by Charles Baudelaire |
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This poem was written by Charles Baudelaire. I can't seem to find the title of this poem; if anyone knows, please share! This was originally written in french, I found it in a book I'm currently reading (The book is called As Simple As Snow by Gregory Galloway, if you want to read it. It's very good, it's an absorbing and compelling read). And I liked it so much that I translated it, and here I am posting it here for all to read and to be inspired. I shall post the French version and the English version. Enjoy.
[French version]
Il faut être toujours ivre. Tout est là: c'est l'unique question. Pour ne pas sentir l'horrible fardeau du Temps qui brise vos épaules et vous penche vers la terre, il faut vous enivrer sans trêve.
Mais de quoi? De vin, de poésie ou de vertu, à votre guise. Mais enivrez-vous.
Et si quelquefois, sur les marches d'un palais, sur l'herbe verte d'un fossé, dans la solitude morne de votre chambre, vous vous réveillez, l'ivresse déjà diminuée ou disparue, demandez au vent, à la vague, à l'oiseau, à l'horloge, à tout ce qui fuit, à tout ce qui gémit, à tout ce quit roule, à tout ce qui chante, à tout ce qui parle, demandez quelle heure il est; et le vent, la vague, l'étoile, l'oiseau, l'horloge, vous répondront: "Il est l'heure de s'enivrer! Pour n'être pas les esclaves martyrisés du Temps, enivrez-vous; enivrez-vous sans cesse! Devin, de poésie ou de vertu, à votre guise."
[English version]
It is necessary to be always intoxicated. Everything is there: it is only question. Not to smell the horrible load of the Time which breaks your shoulders and tilts you towards the earth, it is necessary to make drunk you without truce.
But of what? Of wine, poem or virtuousness, please. But become intoxicated.
And so sometimes, on the steps of a palace, on the green grass of a trench, in the dismal loneliness of your room, you wake up, already diminished or missing drunkenness, ask the wind, wave, the bird, the clock, all that runs away, in all that wails, in all this quit runs, to all that sings, in all that speaks, ask which hour it is; and the wind, wave, the star, the bird, the clock, will answer you: "It is the hour to become intoxicated! Not to be the slaves tortured by Time, become intoxicated; become intoxicated continuously! Fortune-teller, of poem or virtuousness, please."
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Here is a little excerpt from the book, just a little something to wet your taste buds.
[ "Anna Cayne had moved here in August, just before our sophomore year in high school, but by February she had, one by one, killed everyone in town." ]
It's not what you think; it's not a horror, or a thriller. But it is a strange tale indeed.
 H a i k u D r e a m s · Sat Mar 22, 2008 @ 03:47am · 0 Comments |
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