Published on Academy of American Poets (https://poets.org)


The Fountain of Blood

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.

Credit


From Other Worlds Than This, translated by Rachel Hadas. © 1994 by Rachel Hadas. Reprinted with permission of Rutgers University Press. All rights reserved.

Author


Charles Baudelaire

The son of Joseph-Francois Baudelaire and Caroline Archimbaut Dufays, Charles Baudelaire was born in Paris in 1821.

Date Published: 1994-01-01

Source URL: https://poets.org/poem/fountain-blood