Rappelez-vous l'objet que nous vîmes, mon âme,
Ce beau matin d'été si doux:
Au détour d'un sentier une charogne
Sur un lit semé de cailloux,
Les jambes en l'air, comme une femme lubrique,
Brûlante et suant les poisons,
Ouvrait d'une façon nonchalante et
Son ventre plein d'exhalaisons.
Le soleil rayonnait sur cette pourriture,
Comme afin de la cuire à point,
Et de rendre au centuple à la grande
Tout ce qu'ensemble elle avait joint;
Et le ciel regardait la carcasse
Comme une fleur s'épanouir.
La puanteur était si forte, que sur
Vous crûtes vous évanouir.
Les mouches bourdonnaient sur ce ventre putride,
D'où sortaient de noirs
De larves, qui coulaient comme un épais
Le long de ces vivants haillons.
Tout cela descendait, montait comme une
Ou s'élançait en pétillant;
On eût dit que le corps, enflé d'un souffle vague,
Vivait en se multipliant.
Et ce monde rendait une étrange musique,
Comme l'eau courante et le vent,
Ou le grain qu'un vanneur d'un mouvement
Agite et tourne dans son van.
Les formes s'effaçaient et n'étaient plus qu'un rêve,
Une ébauche lente à
Sur la toile oubliée, et que l'artiste
Seulement par le souvenir.
Derrière les rochers une chienne
Nous regardait d'un oeil fâché,
Epiant le moment de reprendre au
Le morceau qu'elle avait lâché.— Et pourtant vous serez semblable à cette ordure,À cette horrible infection,
Etoile de mes yeux, soleil de ma nature,
Vous, mon ange et ma passion!
Oui! telle vous serez, ô la reine des grâces,
Apres les derniers sacrements,
Quand vous irez, sous l'herbe et les floraisons grasses,
Moisir parmi les ossements.
Alors, ô ma beauté! dites à la
Qui vous mangera de baisers,
Que j'ai gardé la forme et l'essence
De mes amours décomposés!
A
My love, do you recall the object which we saw,
That fair, sweet, summer morn!
At a turn in the path a foul
On a gravel strewn bed,
Its legs raised in the air, like a lustful woman,
Burning and dripping with poisons,
Displayed in a shameless, nonchalant way Its belly, swollen with gases.
The sun shone down upon that putrescence,
As if to roast it to a turn,
And to give back a hundredfold to great Nature The elements she had combined;
And the sky was watching that superb cadaver Blossom like a flower.
So frightful was the stench that you believed You'd faint away upon the grass.
The blow-flies were buzzing round that putrid belly,
From which came forth black
Of maggots, which oozed out like a heavy liquid All along those living tatters.
All this was descending and rising like a wave,
Or poured out with a crackling sound;
One would have said the body, swollen with a vague breath,
Lived by multiplication.
And this world gave forth singular music,
Like running water or the wind,
Or the grain that winnowers with a rhythmic motion Shake in their winnowing baskets.
The forms disappeared and were no more than a dream,
A sketch that slowly
Upon the forgotten canvas, that the artist Completes from memory alone.
Crouched behind the boulders, an anxious dog Watched us with angry eye,
Waiting for the moment to take back from the carcass The morsel he had left.— And yet you will be like this corruption,
Like this horrible infection,
Star of my eyes, sunlight of my being,
You, my angel and my passion!
Yes! thus will you be, queen of the Graces,
After the last sacraments,
When you go beneath grass and luxuriant flowers,
To molder among the bones of the dead.
Then,
O my beauty! say to the worms who
Devour you with kisses,
That I have kept the form and the divine essence Of my decomposed love!— Translated by William
The Carcass The object that we saw, let us recall,
This summer morn when warmth and beauty mingle — At the path's turn, a carcase lay
Upon a bed of shingle.
Legs raised, like some old whore far-gone in passion,
The burning, deadly, poison-sweating mass Opened its paunch in careless, cynic fashion,
Ballooned with evil gas.
On this putrescence the sun blazed in gold,
Cooking it to a turn with eager care — So to repay to Nature, hundredfold,
What she had mingled there.
The sky, as on the opening of a flower,
On this superb obscenity smiled bright.
The stench drove at us, with such fearsome power You thought you'd swoon outright.
Flies trumpeted upon the rotten belly Whence larvae poured in legions far and wide,
And flowed, like molten and liquescent jelly,
Down living rags of hide.
The mass ran down, or, like a wave elated Rolled itself on, and crackled as if frying:
You'd think that corpse, by vague breath animated,
Drew life from multiplying.
Through that strange world a rustling rumour ran Like rushing water or a gust of air,
Or grain that winnowers, with rhythmic fan,
Sweep simmering here and there.
It seemed a dream after the forms grew fainter,
Or like a sketch that slowly seems to dawn On a forgotten canvas, which the painter From memory has drawn.
Behind the rocks a restless cur that slunk Eyed us with fretful greed to recommence His feast, amidst the bonework, on the chunk That he had torn from thence.
Yet you'll resemble this infection too One day, and stink and sprawl in such a fashion,
Star of my eyes, sun of my nature, you,
My angel and my passion!
Yes, you must come to this,
O queen of graces,
At length, when the last sacraments are over,
And you go down to moulder in dark places Beneath the grass and clover.
Then tell the vermin as it takes its pleasance And feasts with kisses on that face of yours,
I've kept intact in form and godlike essence Our decomposed amours!— Translated by Roy
Darling, do you recall that thing we found("A lovely summer day!" you said)That noisome carcass where the path swung roundA sprawling pebble-covered bed.
Its legs raised like a whore's in lubric play,
It burned, oozing rank fetors there,
Shameless and nonchalant, it offered
Its belly.
Poisons filled the air.
The sun beat down on this putrescent
As if to fry it to a turn,
To give great Nature back one
All she had gathered in her urn.
The skies watched that proud carcass, lax or taut,
Bloom like a flowery mass.
So pungent was the stench, my love, you
To swoon away upon the grass.
Horseflies buzzed loud over this putrid belly,
Whence sallied column and
Of sable maggots, flowing like a mucose jelly,
Over this live tatterdemalion.
Waves seemed to rise and fall over this mass,
Spurting with crepitation,
As though this corpse, filled with breaths of gas,
Lived by multiplication.
This world uttered a curious melody,
Like waters, wind, or grains of
That winnowers keep stirring
In the broad baskets at their feet.
The forms, fading into a dream, grew fainter;
Here was a sketch of misty
On a forgotten canvas which the
Completes from memory alone.
Hiding behind the rocks, an anxious
Stood, watching us with angry eye,
Poised to regain the olid morsel which,
Hearing us come, she had laid by.— Yet shall you be like this ordurous blight,
You, too, shall rot in just such fashion,
Star of my eyes, sun of my soul's delight,
Aye, you, my angel and my passion.
Such you,
O queen of graces, in the hours,
When the last sacrament is said,
That bear you under rich sods and Iush
To molder with the moldering dead.
Then,
O my beauty!
Tell such worms as
Kiss you in ultimate
That I have kept the form and essence
My love in its decomposition.— Translated by Jacques
ClercqA
Do you remember the thing we saw, my soul,
That summer morning, so beautiful, so soft:
At a turning in the path, a filthy carrion,
On a bed sown with stones,
Legs in the air, like a lascivious woman,
Burning and sweating poisons,
Opened carelessly, cynically,
Its great fetid belly.
The sun shone on this fester,
As though to cook it to a turn,
And to return a hundredfold to great
What she had joined in one;
And the sky saw the superb
Open like a flower.
The stench was so strong, that you might
To swoon away upon the grass.
The flies swarmed on that rotten belly,
Whence came out black
Of spawn, flowing like a thick
Along its living tatters.
All this rose and fell like a wave,
Or rustled in jerks;
One would have said that the body, fun of a loose breath,
Lived in this its procreation.
And this world gave out a strange music,
Like flowing water and wind,
Or a winnower's grain that he shakes and
With rhythmical grace in his basket.
The forms fade and are no more than a dream,
A sketch slow to
On the forgotten canvas, and that the artist completes Only by memory.
Behind the boulders an anxious
Watched us with angry eyes,
Spying the moment to regain in the skeleton The morsel she had dropped.— And yet you will be like this excrement,
This horrible stench,
O star of my eyes, sun of my being,
You, my angel, my passion.
Yes, such you will be, queen of gracefulness,
After the last sacraments,
When you go beneath the grasses and fat flowers,
Moldering amongst the bones.
Then, my beauty, say to the
Which will eat you with kisses,
That I have kept the shape and the divine substance Of my decomposed loves!— Translated by Geoffrey
The
Remember that object we saw, dear soul,
In the sweetness of a summer morn:
At a bend of the path a loathsome
On a bed with pebbles strewn,
With legs raised like a lustful woman,
Burning and sweating poisons,
It spread open, nonchalant and scornful,
Its belly, ripe with exhalations.
The sun shone onto the rotting heap,
As if to bring it to the boil,
And tender a hundredfold to vast
All that together she had joined;
And the sky watched that superb
Like a flower blossom out.
The stench was so strong that on the
You thought you would pass out.
Flies hummed upon the putrid belly,
Whence larvae in black battalions
And like a heavy liquid
Along the tatters deliquescing.
All together it unfurled, and rose like a
And bubbling it sprang forth;
One might have believed that, with a faint breath filled,
The body, multiplying, lived.
And this world gave out a strange
Like of running water and of wind,
Or of grain in a
Rhythmically shaken and tossed.
Form was erased and all but a vision,
A sketch slow to take
On a forgotten canvas, which the artist
From memory alone.
Behind the rocks a fretting
Looked at us with fierce
Anxious to retrieve from the corpseA morsel that she had dropped.
Yet to this rot you shall be like,
To this horrid corruption,
Star of my eyes, sun of desire,
You, my angel and my passion!
Yes, such you shall be, you, queen of all graces,
After the last sacraments,
When you go beneath the grass and waxy flowers,
To mold among the skeletons.
Then, oh my beauty!
You must tell the vermin,
As it eats you up with kisses,
That I have preserved the form and essence
Of my decayed loves.
Translated by Anonymous
