The Fountain Of Blood

A poem by Charles Baudelaire

Sometimes it seems my blood spurts out in gobs
As if it were a fountain's pulsing sobs;
I clearly hear it mutter as it goes,
Yet cannot find the wound from which it flows.

Then through the city, coursing in the lists,
It travels, forming islands in its midst,
Seeing that every creature will be fed
And staining nature its flamboyant red.

Oh, I have asked of wine the magic way
To drug my terrors, even for a day;
Wine clears the eye, makes hearing more distinct!

I've sought forgetfulness in love, but failed,
Since love for me is just a bed of nails
Made to provide these women bloody drink!

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