274

Baudelaire: LA CLOCHE FÊLÉE

It is bitter and sweet, during the nights of winter,
Close to the fire that palpitates and fumes, to listen
For the distant recollections that rise up
At the sound of clarions singing in the mist.

Blessed is the bell with vigorous throat
Which, despite its age, alert and far-carrying,
Faithfully throws out its religious cry,
Like an old soldier watching from under a tent.

Me, my soul is cracked, and when in its ennui
It would people the cold night air with chants,
It often happens that its enfeebled voice

Seems the heavy groan of a forgotten casualty, left
At the edge of a lake of blood, under a great pile of
Bodies, who dies, immobile, in his immense efforts.