The Flowers of Evil 1732 Studios

French · Flowers of Evil

Un Voyage à Cythère

A Voyage to Cythera

60 lines · 38 notes

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    My heart, like a bird, was fluttering all joyful

    Monmymon · determiner, singulardeterminer of coeur
    coeurheartcoeur · noun, masculine, singularsubject of voltigeait
    commelikecomme · prepositionpreposition marking oiseau
    unaun · determiner, masculine, singulardeterminer of oiseau
    oiseaubirdoiseau · noun, masculine, singulardepends on voltigeait
    voltigeaitwas flutteringvoltiger · verb, imperfect, indicative, third-person, singularmain verb of the sentence
    toutalltout · adverbmodifies joyeux
    joyeuxjoyfuljoyeux · adjective, masculinepredicate adjective describing coeur
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    And soared freely about the rigging;

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    The ship rolled along beneath a cloudless sky;

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    Like an angel made drunk on a radiant sun.

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    What is this island, sad and black? — It is Cythera,

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    We are told, a land famous in the songs,

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    A hackneyed Eldorado for every old bachelor.

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    Look closer: after all, it is a poor scrap of land.

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    — Island of sweet secrets and of the heart's festivals!

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    Of ancient Venus the proud phantom

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    Above your seas hovers like a perfume

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    And laden the spirits with love and with languor.

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    Fair island of green myrtles, full of blossomed flowers,

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    Forever revered by every nation,

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    Where the sighs of hearts in adoration

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    Roll like incense over a garden of roses

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    Or the eternal cooing of a wood-pigeon!

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    — Cythera was now no more than a most meagre patch of ground,

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    A stony desert troubled by harsh, shrill cries.

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    Yet I made out, dimly, a singular object!

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    It was not a temple in leafy, woodland shade,

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    Where the young priestess, in love with the flowers,

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    Would walk, her body burning with secret heat,

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    Half-opening her robe to the passing breezes;

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    But now, as we skimmed the coast close enough

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    To startle the birds with our white sails,

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    We saw that it was a gallows with three arms,

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    Standing out black against the sky, like a cypress.

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    Ferocious birds, perched upon their feed,

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    Were tearing apart with fury a hanged man already ripe,

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    Each one driving in, like a tool, its unclean beak

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    Into every bleeding corner of this rottenness;

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    The eyes were two holes, and from the caved-in belly

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    The heavy intestines spilled down over his thighs,

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    And his torturers, gorged on hideous delights,

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    Had, with strokes of the beak, utterly castrated him.

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    Below the feet, a pack of jealous four-footed beasts,

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    Snouts lifted high, wheeled about and prowled;

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    A larger beast in their midst was stirring restlessly

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    Like an executioner surrounded by his assistants.

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    Dweller of Cythera, child of a sky so fair,

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    Silently you were suffering these outrages

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    In expiation of your infamous rites

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    And of the sins that have denied you the grave.

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    Ridiculous hanged man, your sufferings are mine!

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    I felt, at the sight of your dangling limbs,

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    Like a fit of vomiting, rising back toward my teeth,

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    The long river of bile of old sorrows;

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    Before you, poor devil whose memory is so dear,

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    I felt all the beaks and all the jaws

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    Of the stabbing crows and the black panthers

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    That once so loved to grind away at my flesh.

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    — The sky was charming, the sea was smooth;

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    For me all was black and bloody from now on,

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    Alas! and I had, as though in a thick shroud,

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    My heart buried within this allegory.

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    On your island, O Venus! I found standing upright

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    Only a symbolic gallows where my own likeness hung...

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    — Ah! Lord! give me the strength and the courage

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    To contemplate my heart and my body without disgust!

The particulars

The text
Les Fleurs du mal, Charles Baudelaire. Flowers of Evil.
Translation
Public-domain French (Baudelaire, d. 1867). English translation © 2026 1732 Studios, LLC.
Words
Every word of the text, by letter.
Data
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Two whoopie pies and a pine. An inside joke.