after Baudelaire
Now comes the hour when a flower feels
Perfume evaporate as from a bowl
Of incense, when sounds make the evening’s soul
Sad languorous waltzes so that the head reels.
Perfumes evaporate as from a bowl,
A mandolin’s strings pluck a heart that keels,
Sad languorous waltzes so that the head reels;
The sky sad, beautiful, will take its toll.
A mandolin’s strings pluck a heart that keels,
A tender heart that hates the gaping hole,
The sky sad, beautiful, will take its toll,
The sun drowns in its own blood and congeals
A tender heart that hates the gaping hole
The past can be unless the memory seals,
The sun drowns in its own blood and congeals,
Your memory burns inside me like a coal.