Charles Baudelaire

Remorso Póstumo

                                           Quando fores dormir, ó bela tenebrosa,

                                           Em teu negro e mamóreo mausoléu, e não

                                           Tiveres por alcova e refúgio senão

                                           Uma cova deserta e uma tumba chuvosa;

                                           Quando a pedra, a oprimir tua carne medrosa

                                           E teus flancos sensuais de lânguida exaustão,

                                           Impedir de querer e arfar teu coração,

                                           E teu pés de correr por trilha aventurosa,

                                           O túmulo, no qual em sonho me abandono

                                            - Porque o túmulo sempre há de entender o poeta -,

                                           Nessas noites sem fim em que nos foge o sono,

                                           Dir-te-á: "De que valeu, cortesã indiscreta,

                                           Ao pé dos mortos ignorar o seu lamento?"

                                            - E o verme te roerá como um remorso lento.

                                                                                                                              Tradução de Ivan Junqueira

 

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Remords posthume

                                           Lorsque tu dormiras, ma belle ténébreuse,
                                           Au fond d'un monument construit en marbre noir,
                                           Et lorsque tu n'auras pour alcôve et manoir
                                           Qu'un caveau pluvieux et qu'une fosse creuse;

                                           Quand la pierre, opprimant ta poitrine peureuse
                                           Et tes flancs qu'assouplit un charmant nonchaloir,
                                           Empêchera ton coeur de battre et de vouloir,
                                           Et tes pieds de courir leur course aventureuse,

                                           Le tombeau, confident de mon rêve infini
                                           (Car le tombeau toujours comprendra le poète),
                                           Durant ces grandes nuits d'où le somme est banni,

                                           Te dira: «Que vous sert, courtisane imparfaite,
                                           De n'avoir pas connu ce que pleurent les morts?»
                                            — Et le ver rongera ta peau comme un remords.