The Moon, who is caprice itself, looked through the window while you were sleeping in your cradle, and said to herself : ‘I like this child.’
And softly she descended her staircase of clouds and, noiselessly, passed through the window-panes. Then she stretched herself out over you with the supple tenderness of a mother, and laid down her colours on your face.
Charles Baudelaire ⬩ The Favours of the Moon ⬩ Twenty Prose Poems
added March 10, 2023 ⬩ random excerpt