Absinthe, O my lively liquor,
It seems, when I drink you
I inhale the young forest’s soul
During the beautiful green season.
Your perfume disconcerts me
And in your opalescence
I see the full heavens of yore,
As through an open gate.
What matter, O refuge of the damned,
That you a vain paradise be,
If you appease my need;
And if, before I enter the gate,
You make me put up with life,
By accustoming me to death.
Raoul Ponchon (1848 - 1937) France
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