Paris may change- my spleen- no way! <br />Shiny new palaces, add-ons, blocks, <br />All for me become allegory <br />Making for memories heavier than rocks. <br /> <br />Again, before this Louvre, the thing recurs- <br />I see my poor swan, hear its useless prayers <br />And think of the heart of every exile <br />Endlessly gnawed by longing. And, of you <br /> <br />Andromache- beside his yet-empty tomb <br />Passed from the arms of a brave man <br />To his slayer's son's, and on to those of Helenus: <br />Once the wife of Hector, now his brother's. <br /> <br />I think of the Black, feverish and poor, <br />Rocking in the sand, staring tired-eyed <br />Toward the shores of a savage Africa <br />Where things come all at once to unruly fruition <br /> <br />And of all who've lost what can never return. <br />Who banquet on tears <br />Who suckle the breasts of Despair <br />And wane like flowers watered with salt-rain. <br /> <br />Thrilled in its wood, my soul hears <br />Gone memories ring like clarions; <br />I think of sailors stranded on isles, <br />Of prisoners, of homeless, and others, still. <br /> <br /> <br />from the French of Baudelaire<br /><br />Morgan Michaels<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-swan-ii/
