The Fountain of Blood
by Charles Baudelaire (1821-67)
[Following translation by Rachel Hadas, 1994:]
A
fountain's pulsing sobs--like this my blood
Measures its flowing, so it sometimes seems.
I hear a gentle murmur as it streams;
Where the wound lies I've never understood.
Like water meadows, boulevards are flooded.
Cobblestones, crisscrossed by scarlet rills,
Are islands; creatures come and drink their fill.
Nothing in nature now remains unblooded.
I used to hope that wine could bring me ease,
Could lull asleep my deeply gnawing mind.
I was a fool: the senses clear with wine.
I looked to Love to cure my old disease.
Love led me to a thicket of IVs
Where bristling needles thirsted for each vein.
[Following translation by Walter Martin, 1997:]
Sometimes I see a massive wave of blood
Spilling over my skin in a flash flood
And feel for a wound. But there is no wound.
Only a long low drawn-out dying sound.
All Nature dyed bright crimson with my blood.
All living creatures lapping it for food,
All Paris turned into a battleground--
A dead, red sea, no paving-stone unstained!
In many a glass of frantic wine I strove
To lay to rest the dread that sapped my brain,
But every glass intensified the pain.
I sought oblivion in love, but love's
A bed of nails insatiable for gore,
That drained my heart for every passing whore.
[The poem in the original French:]
La Fontaine de Sang