Their skin blooms on brambles that erewhile were bare.
That ravine is a friend-inhabited hell!
Then let us roll in, oh woman inhuman,
To immortalise hatred that nothing can quell!
FROM BAUDELAIRE’S PROSE WORK ENTITLED “LITTLE POEMS.”
THE STRANGER.
Whom dost thou love best? say, enigmatical man—thy father, thy mother, thy brother, or thy sister?
“I have neither father, nor mother, nor sister, nor brother.”
Thy friends?
“You there use an expression the meaning of which till now remains unknown to me.”