TO THE READER
Folly, error, sin and avarice Occupy out minds and waste our bodies, And we feed our polite remorse As beggars fee their lice.
Our sins are stubborn, our repentance is cowardly; We ask high prices for our vows, And we gaily return to the muddy road, Believing we will wash away all our spots with vile tears.
On the pillow of evil it is Thrice-Great Satan Who endlessly rocks our bewitched mind, And the rich metal of our will Is vaporized by that wise chemist.
It is the Devil who pulls the strings that move us! In repulsive objects we find enticing lures; Each day we go down one more step toward Hell, Without horror, through darkness which smells rank.
Just as a lustful pauper who kisses and bites The martyred breast of an aged whore, We steal, as we move along, a clandestine pleasure Which we squeeze hard like an old orange.
Packed tight and swarming like a million maggots, A crown of Demons carouse in our brains, And, when we breathe, Death into our lungs Descends, an invisible river, with heavy wailings.
If rape, poison, the knife and arson Have not yet woven with their pleasing patterns The banal canvas of our pitiful fate, It is because our soul, alas, is not bold enough.
But among the jackals, panthers, bitches, Monkeys, scorpions, vultures, serpents, The monsters squealing, yelling, grunting, crawling In the infamous menagerie of our vices
There is one uglier, more wicked and more foul than all! Although he does not make great gestures or great cries, He would gladly make the earth a shambles And swallow the world in a yawn; It is boredom! His eyes weeping an involuntary tear, He dreams of gibbets as he smokes his hookah. You know him, reader, this delicate monster, -Hypocrite reader-my twin-my brother! From Flowers of Evil -Charles Baudelaire
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