The Poet - To C. Baudelaire - Poem by Alice Baudoin

"Exiled
To the ground,
Engulfed
In contempt,
Framed
By giant wings,
A footstep
Is hard
To attempt"

The poet

Went to kiss the stars good night

From the immensity

Of the remoted field

Cold and doubt

Stubbed his heart and sight

And devastation

Floated unsealed


Into his moonlight stroll

Along the river

Thoughts burned like fire

On the fine hot sand

And helplessness,


Corrosive like a shiver,

Venom and fear

Poured upon his hand


You, poet,

Made of Stone and of Wind,

Of Sound of Horn

Reordering Our Feeling,

The grain of dust

Your palm and soul tinned

Will turn the stars you kissed

Into a ceiling