Partially paralyzed, rendered
speechless after a stroke,
the dying poet argued with his doctor,
a fashionable atheist, about
the existence of God. He pointed
toward the setting sun -
its golden sheen burning
across the low horizon, framed
by skeletal trees - and he
mouthed strangled sounds, and
kept pointing and gesturing, gasping
for the words that once flowed
so easily from his lips to the page.
But what was his meaning?
Did he mean only a beautiful
God could have created the sunset?
Or did he mean the sunset itself
was a god, that it was enough
to worship its timely recurrence
every night of every day across time?
Or in his affliction had he acquired
the sky's view of the landscape?
And in that passionate apprehension
had the poet of Flowers of Evil
finally achieved a full blossoming
within his yearning soul?
I found this very moving. After discussing the poet's framing of his works under the title of 'Flowers of Evil, ' I hope he found salvation in the earthly sunset before ascending. I detect a difference in this writing from some of your other work. It is less flowery and more terse in the writing. The words are beautiful, however, and well encapsulated in the moment here. The idea of the sky's view of the landscape is amazing!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This is as vivid as a painting.
Thanks for reading and commenting, Linda. All of us benefit from these comments by our fellow poets, we need to feel a community of like-minded around us. //Baudelaire was one of the poets who made me write poems. I wanted to experience the creativity that pours forth in his poems.