My impoverished muse, alas! What have you for me this morning?
Your empty eyes are stocked with nocturnal visions,
In your cheek’s cold and taciturn reflection,
I see insanity and horror forming.
The green succubus and the red urchin,
Have they poured you fear and love from their urns?
The nightmare of a mutinous fist that despotically turns,
Does it drown you at the bottom of a loch beyond searching?
I wish that your breast exhaled the scent of sanity,
That your womb of thought was not a tomb more frequently
And that your Christian blood flowed around a buoy that was rhythmical,
Like the numberless sounds of antique syllables,
Where reigns in turn the father of songs,
Phoebus, and the great Pan, the harvest sovereign.
(Charles Baudelaire)
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Based on Topics: Mind Poems, Thought & Thinking Poems, Morning Poems, Fathers Poems, Contemplation Poems, Sanity PoemsBased on Keywords: songs, visions, empty, horror, poured, bottom, pan, womb, tomb, harvest, muse