Dusky as tropic nights, O bizarre deity, Redolent of havana, musk and cordovan, What obeah man or Faust of the Caribbean, Wrought you, child-witch of night, with flanks of ebony? Better than opium or Constanta. Wine or Nuits, Your nectar mouth where Love swoons in a slow pavane, When my desires set forth, a serried caravan, Your eyes are the twin wells where I can slake ennui.
From out these wide black eyes which are your spirit's vent, Heap fires less fierce upon me. O impenitent, I am no tireless Styx to gird you nine times nine, I am no lustful Fury to exhaust your lust, To break your vigor or to make you bite the dust Or in your bed's hell turn into a Proserpine.
Les Fleurs de Mal, by Charles Baudelaire (Translation by Jacques LeCrercq)
Welcome and sinister salutations! I'm Arcadia, a non-binary translator and writer-wannabe. What does that mean? It means that in my pants I have a chthonic insondable mystery and an absurd obsession with linguistics and deep lore stories.
