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Quote by Charles Baudelaire

“En días que de Cristo florecían las semillas, Más de un ilustre monje, hoy poco citado, Tomando por taller el campo santo, Glorificaba la Muerte con simplicidad. —Mi alma es una tumba que, pésimo cenobita, Desde la eternidad recorro y habito; Nada embellece los muros de este claustro odioso. ¡Oh, monje holgazán! ¿Cuándo sabré yo hacer Del espectáculo vivido de mi triste miseria El trabajo de mis manos y el amor de mis ojos? El mal monje”

Quote by Charles Baudelaire

Book:Las flores del mal - Baudelaire
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Las flores del mal - Baudelaire

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Charles Baudelaire
Charles Baudelaire

Charles Baudelaire, a renowned French poet and literary critic, was born on April 9, 1821, and died on August 31, 1867. His poetry is known for its unique symbolism and has had a profound impact on modern literature. more

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“Highways of love He traveled on emotional highways, Followed by someone who knew his all ways, Together they invested in feelings new, Where there were many memories and moments of joy kissed by morning dew, He criss crossed the lanes and highways with her, As they felt new emotions and experienced new feelings together, The highways of emotions that eventually transformed into the highways of love, And on these highways you only saw them, whether you looked from any side or you looked at them from above, Because they traveled on highways, of which only they knew, Created by their feelings of love and emotions new, These highways stretched from heart to heart, And they experienced the unstoppable rush of intense emotions from the very start, And as the highway of one feeling ended, With a new heart beat a new one got instantly created, So it can be said they lived in their bodies but they stayed in each others hearts, To feel the highways of feelings from which that original moment of love never departs, Then as the day approached its end, These highways of emotions and love did tend to bend, Where they entered a circular formation, And as a single sentiment the highways circled around their hearts like purest form of love’s sensation, And as their eyes slept, their hearts stayed awake, creating circular highways of passionate feelings, Where their hearts secretly dealt with love kissed feelings, And at the break of the dawn, the highways stretched again, As they raced towards new emotions while being kissed by the love’s rain, It has been so, for centuries now, Because on these highways of emotions and passions, time exists only for them, every moment called then and every moment called now, It is just the highways, the two hearts, and the moments of time that never end, Because they know physical highways may end, but feelings of true love never end, nor do they ever bend!”

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Book:They Loved in 2075!
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“PIENSO DE POLLO PARA GATOS DE INTERIOR (todo el capítulo es <3) Se me caen de la boca. De la boca se me caen porque están duros y son pequeños y cuesta morderlos. Dicen ser de pollo, pero con esto no me relamo. Yo me relamo con el pollo, el sabor de la pulpa rosa- da, cuando noto las venitas de la carne blanda en las encías y cuan- do arranco un trozo. Un trozo arranco y lo saboreo, y la saliva, y me lo trago y no se me cae de la boca porque es tierno y me relamo. Me relamo y me relamí con ese trozo tierno, con ese muslito de pollo que me comí y me relamí y me relamí y me relamí con el muslito de pollo. Con el muslito mimoso me relamí y me relamo ahora de pensarlo. Me relamo, pero no me relamo con estos, que saben a cartón. Estos trocitos oscuros que saben a cartón y se me caen de la boca. Se me caen de la boca estos trocitos como caquitas de cabra, y del mismo color son, y suerte que no huelen igual, suerte que huelen a otra cosa. No huelen a cartón. No huelen ni a pollo ni a cartón. No sé a qué huelen. En el saco leo: «Pienso de pollo para gatos de interior». Para gatos de interior. Eso es lo que soy. De interior. La comida de gatos de interior es una porquería que sabe a cartón. Si todos los gatos domesticados comen esto, no puede ser que quieran seguir siendo gatos de interior. Para gatos de interior. Así nos llaman, igual que así llaman a algunas plantas y a algunos muebles. Como un mueble, como un mueble soy. Como una silla. Soy una silla de madera que come cartón.”

Poesía
Book:Olor a hormiga
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