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.  “Plouf.”  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