- sorrows of the moon -

***
this evening, the moon dreams more of laziness
than beauty, on velvet cushions she rests
her discreet hand gives a slight caress
before going to sleep, to the contour of her breasts

on the back of satin avalanches, she dies
surrendering herself in long, slow swoons
and running her eyes over azure skies
the white visions rising like blooms

when, sometimes over this globe, in her languor
she lets out a furtive tear
a pious poet, enemy of sleep, comes

and in the hollow of his hand takes her pale tears
like fragments of opal from her iris mirrors
and hides them in his heart, far from the eyes of the sun
***




from Les Fleurs de Mal by Charles Baudelaire 1857                                                                             ©ars poetica