The Swan

A swan glides through the lake’s reflective grace,
In silence, unspeaking—a chaste embrace;
The world distorts in its solemn draw,
As ripples spin this world into awe.

Luxurious plumage floats on the air,
A metaphor wrapped in a woman’s despair;
Each stroke of the water a memory scorned,
A tragic beauty in nature’s mourned.

Oh! elegy of the life we wish to be,
In the shimmering depths, dark dreams run free;
So let us trace the path of the swan,
Through this life of strife, till the last light dawn.

• Charles Baudelaire