O Lethe, take me to your abode.
My quill awaits your warm fingertips
O Lethe, flow me into your hands
Take me to your black, to find me, rest.

Ah… At last, my mind is in peace, not pieces
As my quivering lips press against your hand
As my throbbing head rests on your plush lap
As my heavy eyes shut from the aeons of weary

Your home of brimstones is my Paradise
But where is your face, Lethe?
My fingers ran through your streams of black
But where is your face, Lethe?
My lips pressed against your gloves of black
But where is your face, Lethe?
My eyes glared at your fiery pupils of black
But where is your face, Lethe?

Ah… where is your face, Lethe?
Even the waters can’t show me your face, Lethe.
Ah... where is your face, Lethe?
My bones felt your whispering… tender… voice.
But Heavens, where is my Lethe’s face?

Don’t veil your countenance, Lethe
I know, it is scarred and marred
I know. it is not… my Daphne’s
I know, it is not of million colours
But ‘Tis the brightest of all – Black...

Lethe, shew me your face, I implore you
Shew me your face gilded with strands of regalia
Before the agents of dawn sever me off you
Before the angels of the sun char off my joy

Heavens, let me be, in these waters of – Black...

Long and Long I waited, endlessly, for you
Far and Far I ventured, maddingly, for you
To the deepest depths of Styx, I ****** myself for you
To the paramount peaks of Blue, I ascended high for you
O, my soul! Your radiance bewilders me

I sought for you among the trees
Dressed in majestic silky fleece
I sought for you among the insects
Adorned with ornamental trinkets

I sought for you among the beasts
With your lips purer than priests
I sought for you among the runes
Hair fragranced by jovial Junes

I sought for you among the humans,
For You, I searched the frigid south,
For You, I searched the turbulent north
For You, I searched the scornful west.
For You, I searched the pitiful east

But with mournful tears,
I found you saddened
I found you wounded
I found you chained
I found you condemned
I found you abandoned

(Your torn fleece
Your broken ornaments
Your scarred lips
Your tousled hair
Your teary eyes
Sears my heart)

Yet your presence soothes your oppressors?
Yet your heart trusts their successors?
O heinous concubines of pride
Why do you strangle my bride?
Why persecute my bride?

My heart writhes of pain, in the chilling fire
The fire for which she gathered, tinder
My quill and his ink froze, in the chilling fire
The fire which she gathered for my pyre.
My vellum sits bone-dry, in the chilling fire
Her fire, which burns my voices to cinder

Every fortnight, I see her glistening eyes
Reciting a monotonous sonnet of grey
That sonnet would never ever suffice
In sheathing me from her stagnant voice
As she smothers my final embers of life
As she “graces” me staleness from life’s fray

Her brushed hair, smooth in bronze.
Her florid face, baroque and supple.
Her lips, curled to a fluttering smile
Her gait, silent, steady and subtle
Her eyes, icy daggers skewering my heart
Her fingertips, flames freezing my breathe

I await in void as her hand rests on mine
Glaring the gloaming sky with heavy eyes
She drained my soul into a dead mine.
But... she birthed my precious Daphne
A shallow stream began from my dry eyes
“I miss our waltz, I always did, Ania.”

The ink on my quill began its flows
My heart repose, as my Ania mellows.
But sorrow, clutch me, she was my Ania
I shall see her very soon, in our meadows
We will have our Final Waltz, Ania
Yes, Ania; Our joyous waltz to Follia.