28 November 2006 | Vol. 6, No. 3

The Joyous Dead

by CHARLES BAUDELAIRE

In a fat, greasy soil, that's full of snails,

I'll dig a grave deep down, where I may sleep

Spreading my bones at ease, to drowse in deep

Oblivion, as a shark within the wave.

I hate all tombs, and testaments, and wills:

I want no human tears; I'd like it more,

That ravens could attack me with their bills,

To broach my carcase of its living gore.

O worms! black friends, who cannot hear or see,

A free and joyous corpse behold in me!

You philosophic souls, corruption-bred,

Plough through my ruins! eat your merry way!

And if there are yet further torments, say,

For this old soulless corpse among the dead.

– Roy Campbell, Tr.