Sharl Bodler Flowers of Evil
Sharl Bodler Lulet e se keqes
There is no twentieth-century poet who has not encountered the great genius of French literature, Charles Bodler, and his masterpiece “Flowers of Evil.” Duplicated between God and Satan, imbued with the most sublime aspirations and experiences of the gloomiest recesses of the human soul, passing through the lure of the noblest and most depraved life, always forward in his proverbial journey, in the depths of unknown to find the new, he has written from the most sarcastic and bitter pages of French poetry to the culmination of her love lyrics, thus remaining today a rare example of a genius modernity expressed in the most form classical poetry. Excerpts from the book The Sun Along the Closed Folding Suburb, The Old Shelter of Lustful Secrets, When the Sun Strikes Cruelly and Doubles Its Rays, And Over the City and the Fields, Over the Roof and the Wheat Field Releases It, duel, Smelling in every corner the most hit rhyme, Stumbling to the words like on a high sidewalk, And bursting with the verses long dreamed of before. This adopted father of ours, the enemy of every chlorosis, Awakens the fields like worms and pink roses, Makes sobs evaporate and leads them like light clouds, And like honeycombs, weighs our brains with thought. He is the one who grows old with crutches with it rinse stuffed, Turns it sweet, young and full of joy like a little one; Who commands the grain of wheat to be filled and ripened, In the immortal heart that always blossoms and grows. When, as a poet, the streets and houses of the Czech town, Even the most cowardly things give a noble fortune, And as a king enters, without zallahi and without caravans behind, Both beautiful palaces and asylums full of maras. Autumn songs We will soon be drowned in a cold and miserable darkness; Goodbye clarity full of life of very short wines! With the ringing of the funeral bells, I am waiting for the cut to fall. The wood, between the noise and the noise, divides the stone yards. Already within my being winter has come and vomited; Anger, horror, hatred, trembling, hard work, And among all this polar hell rises like a former sun, Only my heart, like a massive block, red and frozen. I sit and accompany with trembling every fallen trunk, The erection of a duller tripod podium does not echo, My soul resembles the gate of a crumbling castle, Under the beat of a tireless ram that jumps and rumbles. It seems to me, in spite of this primitive and long monotony, To feel that a quiver, I do not know where, to grab in a hurry. But for whom? Yesterday was summer; Here we are today, under this autumn sky! This mysterious noise, how much it resembles that escape into exile
