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Thalia HarrisCRWR 350

Self –Evaluation/Short Essay

Because I had taken the CMPL 350 course (Theory and Practice of Translation) in the Fall 2009

semester, where we participated in intensive readings about the progressions and transgressions of

translation, I entered the Spring 2010 Translation Workshop with what I believed to be a comprehensive

idea of what translation was about. To say “I was wrong” in that respect would be inaccurate, because

my previous studies removed any reservation I had about staying loyal to the original text to the point

that it becomes “translationese1”. Also, I accepted early on that a perfect translation is impossible, so

while it discouraged some of my classmates, it liberated me, making translation more of an art form.

As I spent the semester translating sonnets and short ballads by Charles Baudelaire2, I

understood that my final translations would be more like hybrids—a mélange of my words, older

translations and suggestions from my classmates. Because I knew this, I presented my work in three

columns—first column was the original, second column was the “literal/rough” and the final column was

the final translation. But my biggest issue was that in the final translation, I would sometimes lose the

meaning of the original piece, because I wanted it to make sense. Also, I would lack faith in the

literal/rough translation—that re-interpreting “d’arbres tout empourpées” as “violaceous trees” instead

of literally as “purplish” would not sound as lovely. However, when I re-revised the poem “A Une Dame

Creole” for the Translation Symposium, and used “purplish” it was much better because not only was it

accessible to the audience, but it was simple and not pompous like the word “violaceous”. Therefore, I

learned to synthesize my “literal” and “final” translation into a new one once more, and put suggestions

into footnotes, offering many possibilities into one poem, similar to Emily Dickinson.

1 Awkwardness or ungrammaticality of translation, such as due to overly literal translation of idioms or syntax http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/translationese 2 from his Fleurs du Mal collection

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One issue that came up frequently during class discussions was the idea of staying loyal to the

original text, and how often we should do so. This was especially relevant in my case because not only

am I dealing with a French poet—I am dealing with a French poet who died over 140 years ago. Because

of this, there were some words in his poetry that would take on an entirely different meaning in modern

French. Therefore, I couldn’t stay too loyal to the text because not only would I risk the fall into

translationese, but I would also risk misinterpreting the line altogether. For example, Baudelaire and

other poets of his time use the word baiser often in their work. Baiser has two meanings: “to kiss”, but

also “to fuck”. The latter meaning however, is only used in recent times, so of course I have to translate

the word as “kiss”.

Another issue I had with loyalty was the idea of modernization. A frequent question that was

asked was, “How do you let the audience know that the piece was written in an older time period

without it sounding antiquated?” One idea was that you could completely re-interpret the poem by

updating the language (not just updating the words, but also localizing it to a specific dialect) and

changing the setting from 1860s Paris to present-day Brooklyn.

I decided to only update the language, because I think the age of his poetry is special. In my

opinion, people read older poetry because they want to see how people wrote in that time. Updating it

to my era would take away that special element of age, and it would become lost in the contemporary.

In addition, my poetic style in English is a hybrid of traditional ballad format with contemporary themes,

so I knew replicating Baudelaire’s original style to the best of my ability was possible. As translator Peter

Bush said, “You must be on the same writing level as the person you are translating”, which reinforces

the idea that translation is an art in itself.

The reason why I decided to update the language was to answer the question constantly posed

in class, to bring Baudelaire’s ideas to the forefront. Most of the other translations I worked with were

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written in the 1930s and 1950s, so their language was very antiquated. The 1930s translation used

words such as “thou” and “thine”. Granted, this was probably done because the translator thought it

would be a perfect equivalent to 1860s French, but even the word “equivalent” itself does not promise

perfection. In my opinion, pronouns such as “thou” and “thine” conjure up thoughts of the Bible, which

is of a completely different canon than Baudelaire and his peers in the Decadence Movement.

One of the most important issues I had with loyalty was the rhyme scheme. This portfolio

contains mostly sonnets, and sonnets have a certain rhyme scheme. I regret that I could not preserve

the rhyme scheme in all of the sonnets because doing so would restrict the vocabulary and I would end

up doing both Baudelaire and myself a huge injustice. In other exercises, such as when I translated the

1960 Japanese pop song 「上を向いて歩こう」I had to keep the rhyme scheme and meter, therefore

making the English version seem wordier than the original Japanese because the Japanese language can

have a word with many syllables become a sentence with many words in English. Example: “Nakinagara

aruku” means “to walk with sadness in the heart”, then I reinterpreted it as “I walk with feelings of

heartache”.

Overall, I feel that not only have I hones my translation skills in this class, but I believe that

translating another language helps me understand English better. With the frequent use of a thesaurus,

I have expanded my vocabulary and discovered many possibilities in the English language. This has

helped me become a better and bolder poet in my native language.

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Sonnets and Short Ballads from

Charles Baudelaire’s Fleurs du Mal

5

À une Dame créole

Au pays parfumé que le soleil caresse,J'ai connu, sous un dais d'arbres tout empourprésEt de palmiers d'où pleut sur les yeux la paresse,Une dame créole aux charmes ignorés.

Son teint est pâle et chaud; la brune enchanteresseA dans le cou des airs noblement maniérés;Grande et svelte en marchant comme une chasseresse,Son sourire est tranquille et ses yeux assurés.

Si vous alliez, Madame, au vrai pays de gloire,Sur les bords de la Seine ou de la verte Loire,Belle digne d'orner les antiques manoirs,

Vous feriez, à l'abri des ombreuses retraitesGermer mille sonnets dans le cœur des poètes,Que vos grands yeux rendraient plus soumis que vos noirs.

— Charles Baudelaire

To a Creole Woman

In the sweet-smelling land caressed by the sun,Beneath the canopy of purplish treesAnd palm trees over which glazed eyes runI knew of a Creole’s secret mysteries

Her skin is light and warm, an enchanting brunetteShe carries herself with graceful waysTall and slim, similar to a huntressA serene smile with a confident gaze

My Lady, if you went to the true land of gloryBy the green Loire or the Seine’s peripheriesThe ancient manors would be blessed by your beauty

In the shelters filled with shadowsA thousand poets’ sonnets from their hearts would glowAnd in your eyes, would shine brighter than your obedient slaves.

-Thalia Harris

6

Tristesses de la lune

Ce soir, la lune rêve avec plus de paresse;Ainsi qu'une beauté, sur de nombreux coussins,Qui d'une main distraite et légère caresseAvant de s'endormir le contour de ses seins,

Sur le dos satiné des molles avalanches,Mourante, elle se livre aux longues pâmoisons,Et promène ses yeux sur les visions blanchesQui montent dans l'azur comme des floraisons.

Quand parfois sur ce globe, en sa langueur oisive,Elle laisse filer une larme furtive,Un poète pieux, ennemi du sommeil,

Dans le creux de sa main prend cette larme pâle,Aux reflets irisés comme un fragment d'opale,Et la met dans son cœur loin des yeux du soleil.

— Charles Baudelaire

Sadness of the Moon

Tonight, the moon dreams quite leisurelyLike a goddess resting on a throne of cushionsWith a gentle hand, so light and carefree,Absentmindedly caressing the contours of her bosom

On the satin back of the rippling cloudsShe delivers long, lethargic swoonsHer eyes skim over white apparitionsWhich rise in the sky, in full bloom.

When, in her apparent apathyShe lets a furtive tear fall on this globeThe pious poet, resistant to slumber,

Takes into his empty hand this pale tearWith opal colors, glittering and clearAnd hides it in his heart, far from the eyes of the sun.

-Thalia Harris

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Une nuit que j'étais près d'une affreuse Juive

Une nuit que j'étais près d'une affreuse Juive,Comme au long d'un cadavre un cadavre étendu,Je me pris à songer près de ce corps venduÀ la triste beauté dont mon désir se prive.

Je me représentai sa majesté native, Son regard de vigueur et de grâces armé, Ses cheveux qui lui font un casque parfumé, Et dont le souvenir pour l'amour me ravive.

Car j'eusse avec ferveur baisé ton noble corps,Et depuis tes pieds frais jusqu'à tes noires tressesDéroulé le trésor des profondes caresses,

Si, quelque soir, d'un pleur obtenu sans effortTu pouvais seulement, ô reine des cruelles!Obscurcir la splendeur de tes froides prunelles.

— Charles Baudelaire

On A Night When I Lay Next to a Hideous Jewess

On a night when I lay next to a hideous JewessLike a cadaver stretched out against a cadaver3,I began to brood about that trafficked bodyAnd the sad beauty, of which my desire denies.

I envisioned myself in her native majestyHer dominating gaze, armed with grace,Her hair which serves as a perfumed armor4

And which your souvenir revives my desire.

For I would’ve passionately kissed your noble physiqueFrom your frigid feet to your black braids, I liberate5 the treasures of fiery caresses.

If, some night, I conjure tears effortlesslyOnly you, O queen of cruelty!Could overshadow the splendor of your piercing eyes.

-Thalia Harris

3 “Like a cadaver next to a cadaver”4 Or “helmet”5 Or “unleash”; “unravel”

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La Musique

La musique souvent me prend comme une mer!Vers ma pâle étoile,Sous un plafond de brume ou dans un vaste éther,Je mets à la voile;

La poitrine en avant et les poumons gonflésComme de la toileJ'escalade le dos des flots amoncelésQue la nuit me voile;

Je sens vibrer en moi toutes les passionsD'un vaisseau qui souffre;Le bon vent, la tempête et ses convulsions

Sur l'immense gouffreMe bercent. D'autres fois, calme plat, grand miroirDe mon désespoir!

— Charles Baudelaire

Music

Music often wisps like the seaTowards my pale star,Beneath a ceiling of mist or in a vast paradise,I begin to sail away;

My chest swells with prideLike the sailI climb on the backs of powerful wavesUnder the night’s veil;

I feel all of my passion swimming inside meIn which the vessels breathe,The strong winds, the storm with its convulsions;

In the great abyss,It soothes me. At other times, the dead reflectionIs my despair!

-Thalia Harris

9

Abel et Caïn

I

Race d'Abel, dors, bois et mange;Dieu te sourit complaisamment.

Race de Caïn, dans la fangeRampe et meurs misérablement.

Race d'Abel, ton sacrificeFlatte le nez du Séraphin!

Race de Caïn, ton suppliceAura-t-il jamais une fin?

Race d'Abel, vois tes semaillesEt ton bétail venir à bien;

Race de Caïn, tes entraillesHurlent la faim comme un vieux chien.

Race d'Abel, chauffe ton ventreÀ ton foyer patriarcal;

Race de Caïn, dans ton antreTremble de froid, pauvre chacal!

Race d'Abel, aime et pullule!Ton or fait aussi des petits.

Race de Caïn, cœur qui brûle,Prends garde à ces grands appétits.

Race d'Abel, tu croîs et broutesComme les punaises des bois!

Race de Caïn, sur les routes Traîne ta famille aux abois.

II

Ah! race d'Abel, ta charogneEngraissera le sol fumant!

Race de Caïn, ta besogneN'est pas faite suffisamment;

Race d'Abel, voici ta honte:Le fer est vaincu par l'épieu!

Race de Caïn, au ciel monte,Et sur la terre jette Dieu!

-Charles Baudelaire

Abel and Cain

I

Tribe6 of Abel, eat, drink and sleepGod smiles on you serenely.

Tribe of Cain, in the mudIs where you die miserably.

Tribe of Abel, your sacrificesPut Seraphim to shame!

Tribe of Cain, will your punishmentBe the only attention you claim?

Tribe of Abel, keep to your harvestAnd your cattle will fare well.

Tribe of Cain, your bowelsWill resonate like a mongrel’s howl.

Tribe of Abel, you warm your bellyBy the noble fire;

Tribe of Cain, in your lairYou shiver from the cold, poor jackal!

Tribe of Abel, love and make plenty!Even your gold has progeny.

Tribe of Cain, with your burning heartBeware of your rising temptations.

Tribe of Abel, you survey and sproutLike the insects in the woods.

Tribe of Cain, on the streetsYour family crawls through the dirt.

II

Ah, tribe of Abel, your dissolving remainsWill fertilize the soli!

Tribe of Cain, your menial chores,Will never suffice.

Tribe of Abel, your shame,The plough is conquered by your sword

Tribe of Cain, ascend to the heavensAnd cast7 God down to Earth!

-Thalia Harris

6 Or “Children of Abel; Spawn of Cain”7 Or “throw”

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Harmonie du soir

Voici venir les temps où vibrant sur sa tigeChaque fleur s'évapore ainsi qu'un encensoir;Les sons et les parfums tournent dans l'air du soir;Valse mélancolique et langoureux vertige!

Chaque fleur s'évapore ainsi qu'un encensoir;Le violon frémit comme un cœur qu'on afflige;Valse mélancolique et langoureux vertige!Le ciel est triste et beau comme un grand reposoir.

Le violon frémit comme un cœur qu'on afflige,Un cœur tendre, qui hait le néant vaste et noir!Le ciel est triste et beau comme un grand reposoir;Le soleil s'est noyé dans son sang qui se fige.

Un cœur tendre, qui hait le néant vaste et noir,Du passé lumineux recueille tout vestige!Le soleil s'est noyé dans son sang qui se fige...Ton souvenir en moi luit comme un ostensoir

-Charles Baudelaire

Evening Harmony

As evening arrives, the stems swayThe flowers’ aroma evaporates like incenseSounds and scents weave with the air,A melancholy waltz and a languid vertigo!

The flowers’ aroma evaporates like incenseThe violin trembles like an afflicted heartWistful waltz and a languid vertigo!The sky is somber and alluring—lovely and dark.

The violin vibrates like a fluttering heartA tender heart, which rests on congealed bloodThe sky is sad and beautiful like a grand repose,The sun is shining, yet their rays no longer flow

A tender heart, now lying in jaded juicesThe luminous past is revivedAs the sun reverses its rise,Like your presence in my memories!

-Thalia Harris

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Sonnet d'automne

Ils me disent, tes yeux, clairs comme le cristal:«Pour toi, bizarre amant, quel est donc mon mérite?»— Sois charmante et tais-toi! Mon cœur, que tout irrite,Excepté la candeur de l'antique animal,

Ne veut pas te montrer son secret infernal,Berceuse dont la main aux longs sommeils m'invite,Ni sa noire légende avec la flamme écrite.Je hais la passion et l'esprit me fait mal!

Aimons-nous doucement. L'Amour dans sa guérite,Ténébreux, embusqué, bande son arc fatal.Je connais les engins de son vieil arsenal:

Crime, horreur et folie! — Ô pâle marguerite!Comme moi n'es-tu pas un soleil automnal,Ô ma si blanche, ô ma si froide Marguerite?

— Charles Baudelaire

Autumn Sonnet

You eyes say to me, clear as crystalMy bizarre love, what do you desire”?Be charming and hush! You irritate my heartUnlike the honesty of the elderly animals

It doesn’t want to show you their infernal secret--Whose tranquil hands invite me to sleepNor does your mysterious legend written with flamesI hate passion, the thought of it sickens me!

Let’s love each other gently. Miserable Love,Plotting in his shadowy den, he makes his markI know the weapons of his antique arsenal.

Crime, horror and folly!Oh my pale Marguerite8. Like me, You are not the autumn sun, my cold Marguerite!

-Thalia Harris

8 I originally said “Love”, but I decided to leave the name in.

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Le Vin des amants

Aujourd'hui l'espace est splendide!Sans mors, sans éperons, sans bride,Partons à cheval sur le vinPour un ciel féerique et divin!

Comme deux anges que tortureUne implacable calentureDans le bleu cristal du matinSuivons le mirage lointain!

Mollement balancés sur l'aileDu tourbillon intelligent,Dans un délire parallèle,

Ma sœur, côte à côte nageant,Nous fuirons sans repos ni trêvesVers le paradis de mes rêves!

-Charles Baudelaire

The Wine of Lovers

Today, this space is splendid!Without curb, bridle, or restraint,Let us fly away on9 wineTo a wonderful and divine sky!

Like two angels torturedBy a merciless deliriumIn the crystal blue of the morningLet’s follow the distant mirage!

Softly balanced on the wingOf an intelligent whirlwindIn a mutual rapture10

My beloved, as we float side by sideWe will soar without restTo the paradise of my dreams11!

-Thalia Harris

9 Or “fly away on the feathers” of wine10 Or “delirious parallel”11 Or “my pursued paradise!”

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La Mort des artistes

Combien faut-il de fois secouer mes grelotsEt baiser ton front bas, morne caricature?Pour piquer dans le but, de mystique nature,Combien, ô mon carquois, perdre de javelots?

Nous userons notre âme en de subtils complots,Et nous démolirons mainte lourde armature,Avant de contempler la grande CréatureDont l'infernal désir nous remplit de sanglots!

Il en est qui jamais n'ont connu leur Idole,Et ces sculpteurs damnés et marqués d'un affront,Qui vont se martelant la poitrine et le front,

N'ont qu'un espoir, étrange et sombre Capitole!C'est que la Mort, planant comme un soleil nouveau,Fera s'épanouir les fleurs de leur cerveau!

-Charles Baudelaire

The Death of the Artists

How many times do I have to shake my bellsAnd kiss your low forehead, sad caricatureTo reach the goal of mystic natureOh my quiver—How many lose the javelin?

We must consume our quiver in subtle plotsAnd we demolish army defensesBefore contemplating the heavenly CreatureFor whom an infernal desire our hearts bleed!

There are some who have never know their IdolAnd those sculptors, damned and scorched with shameAlways hammering their temples and beating their chests,

There is not hope, dark and exotic Capitol!This is Death, exploding like a new sunShe will bring the flowers of their minds to bloom!

-Thalia Harris

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Le Coucher du Soleil Romantique

Que le soleil est beau quand tout frais il se lève,Comme une explosion nous lançant son bonjour! — Bienheureux celui-là qui peut avec amour Saluer son coucher plus glorieux qu'un rêve!

Je me souviens!... J'ai vu tout, fleur, source, sillon, Se pâmer sous son œil comme un cœur qui palpite... — Courons vers l'horizon, il est tard, courons vite, Pour attraper au moins un oblique rayon!

Mais je poursuis en vain le Dieu qui se retire; L'irrésistible Nuit établit son empire, Noire, humide, funeste et pleine de frissons;

Une odeur de tombeau dans les ténèbres nage, Et mon pied peureux froisse, au bord du marécage, Des crapauds imprévus et de froids limaçons.

— Charles Baudelaire

The End of the Romantic Sun

The Sun is sublime when it risesLike an explosion12 we greet joyfullyWhich a happy man can salute13 the slumberMore glorious than a dream.

I’ve seen every flower, furrow and springSwoon in His gaze like a fluttering heartRun towards the horizon, we must hurry!So we can at least catch a fleeting ray

But I pursue my retired God in vainThe irresistible Night establishes Her empireDark, damp, deadly and horror

There is a stench of death in my cloudy sweatAnd at the edge of this swamp, I trample onHidden toads and clammy snails.

-Thalia Harris

12 Or “the only explosion”13 Or “greet”

15

Avec ses vêtements ondoyants et nacrés

Avec ses vêtements ondoyants et nacrés,Même quand elle marche on croirait qu'elle danse,Comme ces longs serpents que les jongleurs sacrésAu bout de leurs bâtons agitent en cadence.

Comme le sable morne et l'azur des déserts,Insensibles tous deux à l'humaine souffranceComme les longs réseaux de la houle des mersElle se développe avec indifférence.

Ses yeux polis sont faits de minéraux charmants,Et dans cette nature étrange et symboliqueOù l'ange inviolé se mêle au sphinx antique,

Où tout n'est qu'or, acier, lumière et diamants,Resplendit à jamais, comme un astre inutile,La froide majesté de la femme stérile.

— Charles Baudelaire

With her undulating and pearly robes…

With her pearly, undulating robes,She walks with a dancer’s graceLike those long snakes with their sacred shaman,They sway in cadence at the end of their staffs.

Like the desolate deserts and blue gloom,Both insensitive14 to human sufferingLike the wide waves of the swollen seaShe dons her indifference.

Her polite eyes are charming mineralsHer nature is strange and symbolicLike an antique angel or a sage-like sphinx

She is made of diamonds, steel, light and gold,Shining like a useless star,In the bleak majesty of her sterility.

-Thalia Harris

14 Or “immune”

16

Le Guignon

Pour soulever un poids si lourd,Sisyphe, il faudrait ton courage!Bien qu'on ait du cœur à l'ouvrage,L'Art est long et le Temps est court.

Loin des sépultures célèbres,Vers un cimetière isolé,Mon cœur, comme un tambour voilé,Va battant des marches funèbres.

— Maint joyau dort enseveliDans les ténèbres et l'oubli,Bien loin des pioches et des sondes;

Mainte fleur épanche à regretSon parfum doux comme un secret Dans les solitudes profondes.

— Charles Baudelaire

The Bad Luck

To lift burdening boulders, You need Sisyphus15’ courage!You have a strong heart as your supportThough Art is long and Time is short.

Far from exalted tombstonesTowards an isolated cemeteryMy heart, like a muffled drumGoes to the beat of the funeral march

Many jewels are absorbed and hiddenIn the dusk and the forgottenThe pickaxes and drills like at distance;

Every flower discharges, with regret,Their sweet perfume, like a secretIn their profound solitude.

-Thalia Harris

15 In Greek mythology, but also found in Roman Mythology Sisyphus (pronounced /ˈsɪsəfəs/; Greek: Σίσυφος sísypʰos [ ̍ sisifos ] (help·info)) was a king punished in the fields of punishment by being compelled to roll a huge boulder up a hill, only to watch it roll back down, and to repeat this throughout eternity. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sisyphus

17

Bohémiens en voyage

La tribu prophétique aux prunelles ardentesHier s'est mise en route, emportant ses petitsSur son dos, ou livrant à leurs fiers appétitsLe trésor toujours prêt des mamelles pendantes.

Les hommes vont à pied sous leurs armes luisantesLe long des chariots où les leurs sont blottis,Promenant sur le ciel des yeux appesantisPar le morne regret des chimères absentes.

Du fond de son réduit sablonneux, le grillon,Les regardant passer, redouble sa chanson;Cybèle, qui les aime, augmente ses verdures,

Fait couler le rocher et fleurir le désertDevant ces voyageurs, pour lesquels est ouvertL'empire familier des ténèbres futures.

— Charles Baudelaire

Traveling Gypsies

The ardent-eyed, prophetic tribeBegan their journey, carrying their childrenOn their backs, or appeasing their appetitesWith the treasure from the mother’s pendulous breasts.

The men march with their glistening armor in tow,Alongside the caravan, where their family hidesSurveying the sky with heavy eyesMourning the loss of their hopeful illusions

At the bottom of his sandy retreat, the cricketWatches them pass by, magnifying his melody;And affectionate Mother Earth16 increases her greenery,

They make the desert bloom and strike water from the stonesIn front of the travelers, from whom is openThe familiar empire is the future demise.

-Thalia Harris

16 Cybele: The Phrygian (Ancient Turkish) deification of Mother Earth. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cybele

18

Ciel brouillé

On dirait ton regard d'une vapeur couvert;Ton œil mystérieux (est-il bleu, gris ou vert?)Alternativement tendre, rêveur, cruel,Réfléchit l'indolence et la pâleur du ciel.

Tu rappelles ces jours blancs, tièdes et voilés,Qui font se fondre en pleurs les cœurs ensorcelés,Quand, agités d'un mal inconnu qui les tord,Les nerfs trop éveillés raillent l'esprit qui dort.

Tu ressembles parfois à ces beaux horizonsQu'allument les soleils des brumeuses saisons...Comme tu resplendis, paysage mouilléQu'enflamment les rayons tombant d'un ciel brouillé!

Ô femme dangereuse, ô séduisants climats!Adorerai-je aussi ta neige et vos frimas,Et saurai-je tirer de l'implacable hiverDes plaisirs plus aigus que la glace et le fer?

— Charles Baudelaire

Misty Sky

They say your gaze is shrouded in mistYour mysterious eyes (are they blue, gray or green?)Alternately tender, dreamy and cruelReflect the sloth and paleness of the sky

You know those blanched, veiled and brisk daysWhich melt into tears of the bewitched heartWhen agitated, the nerves are too aroused to controlAnd give rise to the sleeping soul

You resemble the brilliant horizonLighting in the sky, even in hazy seasonsYour moist land glistens from the rainEnflamed with rays from a cloudy sky!

Oh dangerous woman, seductive climateWill I also admire your snow and your cold weatherWill I get pleasure from your relentless winterHeightened by the daggers of ice17?

-Thalia Harris

17 Or “icicles” (instead of daggers of ice)

19

L'Aube spirituelle

Quand chez les débauchés l'aube blanche et vermeilleEntre en société de l'Idéal rongeur,Par l'opération d'un mystère vengeurDans la brute assoupie un ange se réveille.

Des Cieux Spirituels l'inaccessible azur,Pour l'homme terrassé qui rêve encore et souffre,S'ouvre et s'enfonce avec l'attirance du gouffre.Ainsi, chère Déesse, Etre lucide et pur,

Sur les débris fumeux des stupides orgiesTon souvenir plus clair, plus rose, plus charmant,À mes yeux agrandis voltige incessamment.

Le soleil a noirci la flamme des bougies;Ainsi, toujours vainqueur, ton fantôme est pareil,Ame resplendissante, à l'immortel soleil!

— Charles Baudelaire

Spiritual Dawn

When the debauched are warmed by the rosy dawn,Guided into society by a powerful IdealBy the power invested in vengeful law,In the deep dusk, an angel awakens

The inaccessible azure of the Spiritual Skies,For the battered man who dreams and still suffers,Opens its gates, acquiescing to his willBehold the dear Goddess, she is lucid and pure.

Over the fuming debris of the foolish orgiesYour memory18 is clearer, rosier and more charmingAnd flutters endlessly in my growing eyes

The sun has sullied the candle flames,So stay victorious, your phantom is The shining soul, the immortal sun!

-Thalia Harris

18 Or “phantom”