After several months of travel, rest and canine talks back to breathe some life into this haven of anthropological, historical and artistic. Today I will not revive any classical myth, dust romantic artwork or archaeological question. Tonight I feel like remembering a poem I read many years ago attracted by the bohemian excesses, the smile of the green fairy, the dream of the ether, the heat of opium and the artificial paradise that enveloped the life of the author to lead to death. I am referring to Charles Baudelaire, yes, the poet paranoid, suicidal, bankrupt, alcoholic, syphilitic and finally paraplegic, who hid under his decrepitude superficial one of the greatest literary talents of the nineteenth. Baudelaire
delves into the beauty of the seemingly ugly, in the symbolism of death in the pursuit of truth and the decadent romanticism of the poems to offer as suggestive as this one. Enjoy the worm to gnaw the skin you.
POSTHUMOUS REMORSE.
When sleep at last, my gloomy beauty,
inside a large tomb in black marble,
when you only by
mansion bedroom and a rainy cemetery and a grave in the earth;
where it prevents the stone on his chest
fearful and those hips of a soft indolence,
the beating and love is in your heart,
and your feet to continue his eventful career, confident
the grave of my infinite sleep
-grave because he always goes to a poet to understand the
at night so long that sleep is absent,
will say, "What do you serve, court imperfect
for ignoring what the dead cry? "
And the worm will gnaw your skin nostalgic.
Charles Baudelaire. The Flowers of Evil.
inside a large tomb in black marble,
when you only by
mansion bedroom and a rainy cemetery and a grave in the earth;
where it prevents the stone on his chest
fearful and those hips of a soft indolence,
the beating and love is in your heart,
and your feet to continue his eventful career, confident
the grave of my infinite sleep
-grave because he always goes to a poet to understand the
at night so long that sleep is absent,
will say, "What do you serve, court imperfect
for ignoring what the dead cry? "
And the worm will gnaw your skin nostalgic.
Charles Baudelaire. The Flowers of Evil.
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