The Death of the Lovers

We will have beds filled with aromas
And, like tombs, very deep divans
And unusual flowers on consoles
That burst, ours, in warmer skies.

Fanning the final ardor to the limit
They will be two torches both hearts
That, indistinct lights, will be reflected
In our two souls, a twin day.

And, finally, a mystic pink and blue afternoon,
We will exchange a single lightning bolt
Equal to a gravid sob of good-byes.

And later, an Angel, opening doors
He will come to reanimate, faithful and jubilant,
The murky mirrors and the dead flames.

• Charles Baudelaire