by Charles Baudelaire （Translated by Rachel Hadas）

    A fountain's pulsing sobs——like this my blood

    Measures its flowing， so it sometimes seems.

    I hear a gentle murmur as it streams；

    Where the wound lies I've never understood.

    Like water meadows， boulevards are flooded.

    Cobblestones， crisscrossed by scarlet rills，

    Are islands； creatures come and drink their fill.

    Nothing in nature now remains unblooded.

    I used to hope that wine could bring me ease，

    Could lull asleep my deeply gnawing mind.

    I was a fool： the senses clear with wine.

    I looked to Love to cure my old disease.

    Love led me to a thicket of IVs

    Where bristling needles thirsted for each vein.