Canto VII of the Purgatory

The princesses of the valley of flowers.
Salve Regina.

 Poscia che l'accoglienze oneste e liete
furo iterate tre e quattro volte,
Sordel si trasse, e disse: «Voi, chi siete?».

  «Anzi che a questo monte fosser volte
l'anime degne di salire a Dio,
fur l'ossa mie per Ottavian sepolte.
 
  Io son Virgilio; e per null'altro rio
lo ciel perdei che per non aver fé».
Così rispuose allora il duca mio.<

  Qual è colui che cosa innanzi sé
sùbita vede ond'e' si maraviglia,
che crede e non, dicendo «Ella è... non è...»,

See there, a soul isolated and reclused who looks towards us; she will show us the shortest way up. 
We came to her: 
"Oh soul with a Latin pace, how  your attitude is proud and noble
and the movement of your eyes, full of dignity and slowlyness!" 
She enquires  of our fatherland and of our state: 
"Who are you?" 

And my guide answered: 
"I am from the Gaule." 
"Oh Gallic  like me. I am Marianne and, undoubtedly from your city!"
 And they  embraced each other with repetition, on the left cheek, then on the right cheek, 
in a codified mechanic which suits only to French poeple. 

"I am Baudelaire and I sacrificed Heaven for no other crime then that to deprive myself from the Faith." 

To these words, such who sees in front of oneself this Gourou who furnished her dreams and who knows 
he is in front of oneself and pretends not to believe it, and who is excites with joy; she embraces him, there, 
and the time  necessary, and with sufficient effusion to let suppose, to whom would see the scene, 
that she burns for him of an ill-considered love. 

And she says: 
"Oh glory of the Gallic ones! You, by whom, the language showed of what it was able.
 Oh eternal honor of the place where I was born! What merit and what grace show you to me? 
If I am worthy to hear your words, tell me from which cloister of Hell do you come from?" 

And Baudelaire answered her: 
"I am over there where there is no torment but loneliness, no complaints but  wispers, 
and I live there with innocent children and others who had so many virtues
 if not the good ones. If you can, show us the shortest way which leads to the purgatory."

 And she answered:
 "I do not have any fixed stay and I can  go from here to there if it pleases me.
I will accompany and guide you because the night approaches and I shiver already; I know a place, 
very close by, where we will be well, you will have all pleasure to be there and to  better know me."

 Then my lord, very excited, said: 
"Then, take us where you say that one will have pleasure to remain there."

 We were not very distant from there when I realized that the mountain was hollow like are the ravines on earth. 
 There was a sinuous path and a soft slope, which  brought us so close to the entry that one could perceive there, 
 all its splendour. Nature had not only spread out its colors but, by the sweetness of thousand of odors, 
it formed a unique perfume, unknown and indefinable. 
There, on green grass and flowers, I saw some noble souls, sitted and naked  who sang: 
"Salve, Regina". 

And Marianne, then, said to me: 
"Before the sun does not complete to lie down, I accompany you 
to these mislaid fairies from which you will be able to contemplate the faces at your ease 
and to benefit from their sulfurous caresses which will relieve you from the tirednesses of the voyage." 
Thus, we were in the cave, my guide had discreetly withdrawn,
and I did not see Marianne any more, but I heard very well the voice of my Master, who sang: 

"Come over my heart,  cruel and deaf soul, 
Tigre adored, monster with indolent look;
 I want, for long, plunge my trembling fingers 
Into the thickness of your heavy mane; 

In your underskirts filled with perfume 
To bury my painful head, 
And to breathe, like a faded flower,
 The soft fusty smell  of my late love

I want to sleep! to sleep rather than to live!
 In a sleep as soft as death,
 I will spread out my kisses without remorse 
Over your beautiful body polished as copper.

 To swallow up my appeased sobs 
Nothing is worth more than the abyss of your couch;
 The powerful oblivion dwells on your mouth, 
And the Léthé runs in your kisses. 

To my destiny, hereafter my delight, 
I will obey like a predestined; 
Martyr docile, innocent condemned. 
Whose fervor stir the torment. 

I will suck, to drown my rancour, 
The népenthès and the good hemlock 
To the charming ends of this acute throat 
Which never imprisoned a heart."(1)

I remember very well on earth, from this carnal poetry, the song of Léo Ferré(2)  whereas 
my painful member, searching into the belly of Mireille, I had deflowered without remorse 
her "fleur de Lys"; I was then, I know it, in Paradise, that one, the same one  I seek again. 
And I am here, thus, subjected, of as many caresses on my tired body, 
by as many noble souls in the same time, who did not have, 
in so little time, relieved me off all my tirednesses and my sorrows.