BAUDELAIRE'S LAMENT

Days grow shorter
fearing silent organs
on a dusty armchair
you lapse from mimicry
of a past without a fanfare
or the artist's future
except for Delacroix,
insomnia won't erase you
nor music notes sounding
behind Persian blinds
you lie on springs
for blankets
with undelivered kisses,
it's only your childhood
which puzzles your table
answering in the dark
until the first light
of silence opens you
to the boundless air.