The Enemy My youth was just a dark tempestuous storm, Crossed here and there with bolts of brilliant Sun; Thunder and rain have taken such a toll That in my garden no ripe fruit remains. See how I’ve reached the autumn of ideas, And now I have to scratch with spade and rake, To gather up afresh the flooded earth, Where water washes holes as large as graves. And who knows if the new flowers that I dream Will find in this soil washed out like the shore The magic element to make them strong? Oh Pain! Oh Pain! Time eats away at life, And the dark Enemy gnawing at our hearts Grows and strengthens from the Blood we lose. Charles Baudelaire (translated by Brian Smith)
87