O my muse, child of the palaces!
Will you, when winter hastens the ravens?
Have a fire for your bare foot
On a dreary snowy night and icy wind?
Will you soothe your marble-cold shoulders
By the nightly stream that runs through the shutters?
Will you, when your pocket and palate are empty?
Dig hidden gold from blue caves?
Every evening hunger will force you,
To sing like choir children at the censer
The song of praise that mocks your pain,
Like tightrope walkers you’ll put yourself on display.
While your laughter, in it cries resound,
Indulges the greed and lusts of the brute heap.
Charles Baudelaire
Translated with DeepL.com (free version)