It is Death, alas, persuades us to keep on living:
the goal of life and the only hope we have,
like an elixir, rousing, intoxicating, giving
the strength to march on towards the grave:
through the frost and snow and storm-wind, look
its the vibrant light on our black horizon:
the fabulous inn, written of in the book,
where one can eat, and sleep and sit oneself down:
its an Angel, who holds in his magnetic beams,
sleep and the gift of ecstatic dreams,
who makes the bed where the poor and naked lie:
its the glory of the Gods, the mystic granary,
its the poor mans purse, his ancient country,
its the doorway opening on an unknown sky!
The Death Of The Poor
written byCharles Baudelaire
© Charles Baudelaire