Danse Macabre

Proud, like one alive, of her noble stature,

With her large bouquet, hankie and gloves she wears,

She has the nonchalance and casual manner

Of a scraggly coquette with extravagant airs.

Is there one to be seen at the ball more slenderly cinched?

Her exaggerated dress, in its royal fullness,

Abundantly falls down on dry feet pinched

By dressed-up shoes, as pretty as two flowers.

The ruche that plays on the edge of the shoulder blades,

Like a lascivious stream come up against stone,

Modestly defends from ridiculous japes

The funereal charms she’s anxious to keep unknown.

Her deep eyes are made up of void and shadows,

And her skull, with flowers artistically coiffed,

Oscillates slackly on her flimsy backbone,

O charm of a nothingness madly gotten-up!

None will ever call you a caricature,

Who don’t understand, lovers drunk with flesh,

The wondrous elegance of the human armature.

You suit, great skeleton, my dearest taste!

Do you come to trouble, with your puissant grimace,

The feast of Life? or does some old desire,

Spurring ever on your living carcass,

Urge you, credulous, to the sabbat of Pleasure?

To the song of violins, the flame of candles,

Do you hope to chase your mocking nightmare,

And come to ask of the torrent of bacchanals

To refresh the hell lit in your breast there?

Exhaustless pit of stupidity and offenses!

Ancient sorrow’s sempiterne alembic!

Through your ribs that make a curvate trellis

I see, still roaming, the insatiable aspic.

To speak truth, I fear all your coquetry

Won’t bring a price that’s worthy of its hire;

Who, of these mortal hearts, understands raillery?

Only the strong are made drunk by the charms of horror!

The gulf of your eyes, filled with horrible thoughts

Exhales vertigo, and dancers who are prudent

Don’t contemplate without some bitter nauseas

The eternal smile of your thirty-two there.

For that, who hasn’t hugged a skeleton,

And who’s not been fed on the things of the tomb?

What matter perfume, habit or toilette?

Who acts disgusted therefore thinks himself handsome.

Bayadère sans nose, unsated camp follower,

Say then to the dancers who act offended:

“Proud sweethearts, despite the art of rouge and powder,

All of you smell of death! O musky skeletons,

Flayed Antinouses, dandies shaven clean,

Varnished cadavers, Lovelaces grown hoar,

The danse macabre’s universal swing

Draws you with it in places that are unknown!

From the Seine’s chilly quays to the blazing banks of the Ganges,

The mortal flock jumps and swoons, not spying

Through a roof hole the trumpet of the Angel

Like a black blunderbuss sinisterly gaping.

In all climates, under all suns, Death admires you

In your contortions, silly Humanity,

And often, perfuming itself with myrrh, just like you,

Mixes in its irony with your insanity!”

Charles Baudelaire