Translation:The Flowers of Evil/The Fountain of Blood

by Charles Baudelaire

Sometimes it seems that my blood flows as free
As a fountain that cries with its rhythmical sobs.
So clearly I hear the flooding’s long hum,
Yet vainly I search to discover no wound.

All over this city, this closed field, it pours
Turning the cobbles to islands of stone,
Quenching the thirst of every soul
With nature flushed red wherever it goes.

Often I’ve asked for misleading wines
For one day to deaden this arduous dread
But wine will just sharpen my ears and my eyes!

I’ve looked into love and its forgetful sleep;
But a mattress of needles is all that I see
To nourish cruel women with something to drink!