Ah, thee, standing beneath the crescent moon;
Dark in thy chest of white substance,
Impure in thy porcelain light,
Corrupted by the bashful night,

And who said thou could understand;
Thou were menial and rigid and cold,
Thou talked away and danced to the light,
Thou made lavish for me a nightmare.

Thou, who seemest just like granite to me
As hard as its surface could be,
And although it had a clean look,
Thou hath been wronged by thy own sins.

I am a threat to thy aura,
An abnormal cloud and satire;
Like a sickness, a secret oblivion,
Thou dream of me not in red and grey.

I am a fly to thy barren tales;
A trouble to thy singing flute.
But who said she could fake a dance;
By the divine Eolian lute?

And thou, whou seem just like granite to me;
As hard as its surface could be,
And though it had a clean look,
Thou hath been cursed by thy old sins,

Thy hands, made ***** by her touch;
Furtive in the most fatal sense,
And thy charm, handsome but mindless,
Knocked my heart torn, drowned and lifeless,

What if I feed thee to my heart;
Whenst all thou doth is crush it again,
What if I let thee tear its parts;
By the love riddles of thy friends,

What if t'is resolute ode is dead;
Leaving me no more beat and breath,
What if my breath hath no more pause,
But hurts and pains and screams and dies.

I dream not of thy lucid words,
They are not beauty to my prose.
I dream not of thy flavoured verse,
Which stays fictitious to my cause.

I dream not of thy flagrant smile,
That lasts only for a while more.
I dream not of thee as I should,
They are a mirror of falsehood.

I dream not of thy mortal blood,
It likes to lie and fool my heart.
I dream not of thy diseased mind,
I shalt be fine with my crooked tears.

I dream not of thy paradise,
For in there shalt be thou and she;
Laid in the thoughts of thy naked lies,
Only poetry dies away with me.