I hate the dark cedar behind the feral wood;
They are too wild for me, and bitter as injustice.
My Nikolaas is perhaps lost behind them;
He was stranded when he played with madness.

My Nikolaas was heavily tossed aside,
And his feelings for me were maliciously murdered.
But my dreams of him remain infantile and sophisticated;
I dream of him too much and in a servile way.

I am toxicated by this love and peril;
I have been shot and shall tremble at my own feet;
I have been seeing these dreams, by my own will;
I have been treating them with sober grins and wit.

Where is but my prince, my dazzling, moronic prince;
Who lived and laughed at me on that very day,
When clouds were storms in a magnified piece;
When moons were stars who fought for their own sunlight.

Where is but my love, my dark darling, my cold devil;
Whose jokes are better than satire;
Whose breath is tainted with my young love;
Whose love echoes so sweetly in my ears.

I remember Nikolaas but five years back;
He was a naive gloss behind my working back,
Whom I fell in love with as a distant college girl,
I was enveloped by the sunny roads of Jakarta.

I remember him as the regal prince,
Who liked to sing and laugh and sing again,
Until the night cast its fair but essential spells,
And the heavenly noon turned as dark as hell.

Nikolaas, our benign and heart-shaped darling,
Whom the demons loved to ask to sing,
Who unstintingly captured my heart,
And almost married it in a heat of delight.

Nikolaas, whom to my heart is but superabundant,
The glorious witch I fell in love with,
When I was but young and rough and discourteous,
But still magnificent to me--with his naughty and obsessive colours.

Come into the garden, my love,
For the black bat, Winter, has flown;
Come into the garden, now,
Because those infuriated shapes
Have left me alone.

Come into the garden, Nikolaas;
Because I am here at the gate alone;
Come into the garden, now;
For the breeze is high, and so is my planet of love.

And that wind of our morning moves
Is now beginning to turn into a bed of daffodils
Which shall blow away with its tender green leaf;
Once the earth is angry with its deaf clouds.

And for thee, this winter is fainting and being scared away
And I want to faint in thy sumptuous light
Because I want to die in a dream that you love;
To faint in the round light you love, and die.

While the sky is too rich and too opulent;
But I cannot find a heart as focal as thine;
Too risky and untidy and might yet be gone;
Too cherished and haughty every single day, unlike mine.

I said to the lily, "There might be one
With whom he has heart to be gay.
When will the dancers leave her alone?
He is weary of masked dance and play."

The lily told me but never to worry;
For my Nikolaas does not have but his own story;
His story is untold and it is with me;
I am the one who knows all his poetry.

But the brief night is always with wine;
And cigars and sins that come with it;
I hate the wonders and scent of plain vinegar;
I feel unfair when my Nikolaas touches it.

And the soul of the rose went into my blood;
As the music wore off in the hall;
It was the end of my merry villonaude;
The one I had prepared for this lonesome yule.

And the boughs of roses I had firmly kept;
Were now no longer scented with his sweat;
He was no more of the awesome lad;
He was not real this time, like ever before.

And long by the painted garden I stood,
For I heard his rivulets fall
And his fantastic voice and manly music
That are but too dearer than all.

But the garden is perhaps no more;
Soaked into the screaming of his nymphet blood;
Scraped by his failed roses and charisma;
That which were calm no more, nor dramatic any more.

But in those green lands his walks have left so sweet
That whenever the sombre wind sighs
It shall but be swept away by his own wings,
And die a languorous death, in a funny cause.

And in the meadow, Nikolaas is the sweetest
That none can guard nor tear
The fine prints of his blue eyes,
For he is not all else's but mine,
The one I long to feel
Between my loving heart and mind.

And I shall print thy name in the acacias of summers,
They will lead my love to thine,
And to the wooden hollows in which we met
And into the unopened valleys of Paradise.

Come hither, Nikolaas, for the dances are done;
And so these longings shall wither away;
I would like to tether thee to my sky once more;
And replace thy broken violin with the sun.

And I shall sit in the throne with thee;
In gloss of satin and clear glimmer of pearls;
By boughs of violets and undying peaches;
By the sea of those little heads that bow.

I shall be thy flower and thy sun,
And wed myself to thee in yon ****** bed;
My heart will wait for thee and write,
The best hymn and lyrics for our sweetest night.

He is coming, my own, my sweet;
With his own proud air and lavish tread;
My heart will but hear him and beat;
And blossom widely in purple and red.