XXII by Charles Baudelaire

I adore you as the equal of night’s vault
Oh great taciturn reliquary of sorrow
I love you ever more as you avoid me
And even more ironically, ornament of evening
You seem to me to crowd every mile that
Separates my arms from that dark immensity

But still I advance to attack, crawl to conquer
Like a chain of worms to a corpse which
I cherish, oh creature implacable and cruel
All the way to that frozen heart so delicious

About ubu507

memory documentation and manipulation
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