In the waning deathpale daylight,
Convulsive Life runs, dances without reason,
Blatant and brawling, shrill with spite.
As soon as over the horizon
Night, voluptuous and vast,
Arises, making hunger tame,
Hiding all things, even shame,
The Poet to himself: “At last!
My spirit and my jaded spine
Plead hungrily for rest. I’ll go,
With dreams darkening my mind,
And lie full length upon my back,
O cooling curtains of deep shadow,
And roll and wrap me in your black.”
by Charles Baudelaire
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