Here’s my last minute entry to whimword’s #whimter contest.
After La Cloche fêlée by Baudelaire
Her pleasure is all,
warming the long nights of winter
at a fire that burns bright
distant memories.
Blessed daughter
who, in love with her youth,
throws faithfully her voice
into the open mouth of her lover.
Me, my soul is wracked with nonexistance.
I watch through the glass.
It often happens that my voice fails me.
I have felt the slow dissolution of a man who is
forgotten at the edge of a lake of youth.
I see condensation forming on the window.
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