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Looking for a poem that perfectly describes my feelings (about aromanticism & other things)


Aro Alien

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I learnt this poem in a French class. I'm convinced it's Baudelaire. but I can't find it anywhere online. It discusses alienation. The lines I remember are about the stars all speaking a language which they know well and which the narrator can't understand. I can't find a single copy of it online. I'm certain I have it in a book, but I can't find that book. Does anybody know it?

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Hi :)
I'd say it's "Obsession", but I think the part about the stars and their language it's a bit different from what you seem to remember...?
Here is it. 

 

Grands bois, vous m'effrayez comme des cathédrales;
Vous hurlez comme l'orgue; et dans nos coeurs maudits,
Chambres d'éternel deuil où vibrent de vieux râles,
Répondent les échos de vos De profundis.

Je te hais, Océan! tes bonds et tes tumultes,
Mon esprit les retrouve en lui; ce rire amer
De l'homme vaincu, plein de sanglots et d'insultes,
Je l'entends dans le rire énorme de la mer

Comme tu me plairais, ô nuit! sans ces étoiles
Dont la lumière parle un langage connu!
Car je cherche le vide, et le noir, et le nu!

Mais les ténèbres sont elles-mêmes des toiles
Où vivent, jaillissant de mon oeil par milliers,
Des êtres disparus aux regards familiers.

 

I'll leave you here one of the many english translations (I chose the one that seemed the best explaining the part about the stars and their language), in case you wanted to check the meaning.

 

Great forests, you alarm me like a mighty fane;
Like organ-tones you roar, and in our hearts of stone, 
Where ancient sobs vibrate, O halls of endless pain! 
The answering echoes of your "De Profundis" moan. 

I hate thee, Ocean! hate thy tumults and thy throbs, 
My spirit finds them in himself. This bitter glee 
Of vanquished mortals, full of insults and of sobs, 
I hear it in the mighteous laughter of the sea. 

O starless night! thy loveliness my soul inhales, 
Without those starry rays which speak a language known, 
For I desire the dark, the naked and the lone

But e'en those darknesses themselves to me are veils, 
Where live and, by the millions 'neath my eyelids prance, 
Long, long departed Beings with familiar glance. 

— Cyril Scott, Baudelaire: The Flowers of Evil (London: Elkin Mathews, 1909)

 
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