" Man to you I push, oh dear
disinherited person,
Under my glass prison and my vermilion
waxes
A song full of light and of fraternity
!
I know how much it must, on the
hill in flames ,
Of punishment, sweaty and of sun
cooking
To beget my life and to give me the
soul :
But I will not be not thankless
neither maleficent.
Because I test an immense joy when I
fall
In the gorge of an used man by his
work
And his sweet chest is a sweet tomb
Where I please very much better that
in my smalls cellars colds.
Do you hear to resound the
refrains of Sundays
And the hope who twitters in my breast
heaving ?
Elbows on the table and turning up
your sleeves,
You will praise me and you will be
content ;
I will take fire eyes of your ravished
woman ;
To your son I will give back his
strength and his colours
And will be for this fragile athlete
of the life
The oil who hardens again the muscles
of the wrestlers.
In you I will fall, vegetal ambrosia
Precious thrown grain by the eternal
sower,
For of our love born the poetry
Who will spurt to God as a rose flower
!"
Charles Baudelaire
