The Voice

I received your gift. 
The sharing.   The poem.  The translation.  The words.  The meaning.  The love.  The message.  All. 
I read the poem . . . word . . . by . . . word . . . again.  And again.  And again.
Forever transformed. 
Assembling the words in one continuous line . . . slow the reading down . . .
Each word chosen so carefully . . . I create a scroll. 
There remains a poem.
There remains Baudelaire. 
Now all together.  Inseparable. 
Let loose in a continuous pile and captured in a glass container. 
See an empty room.  A stone wall carved with the words.
In the middle, a pile of words. 
Nothing lost. 
Something gained.  My gift to you.

The Translated La Voix Poem by Baudelaire