From that sky livid, bizarre
as your tortured destiny,
what thoughts fill your empty heart,
Freethinker, answer me.
Insatiable and avid
for vague and obscure skies,
Ill not groan like Ovid,
banned from Rome and paradise.
Skies, shores split and seamed,
my prides mirrored in you:
your clouds in mourning, too,
are the hearses of my dreams,
Hells reflected in your light,
where my heart takes delight.
Sympathetic Horror
Charles Baudelaire
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