My lavender is burnt and loveless;
Painful, devoured and helpless,
Weak by the side of its dying corpse;
Solitary yet at an age so young.

My lavender cries in its daydreams;
Giggles in sorrowful screams,
And faints and dies beneath fun daylight;
As though tortured and wounded by the sun.

My lavender wriggles in isolation;
Like those ragged clothes in damnation
And there's no more death between heaven and hell--
For none is alive, nor breathes to live.

My lavender longs not to drink nor die;
But it sleeps by the hushed setting moon,
Trapped behind the tail of his lethal winds;
Blinded by too many mysteries, unseen.

My lavender peels its own skinny bones;
Its quaint lust cut and fiercely torn,
Teased by the cold trees of summertime;
Faded by the sweet whispers of time.

My lavender eats its own bloodless veins;
And its hateful friendless world,
Having laughed at anonymous walls
Marveled at unspoken poems.

My lavender drinks of its own soul;
And to love now is but to have none,
With her autumn love stolen by fate;
All her gripping sonnets are far too late.

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.

And the young poet is in love again;
She fell in love when she said your name;
She fell in love when she looked at you;
She fell in love and she knew that.

And the young poet has shyly smiled;
She fell in love when she caught your eyes;
She fell in love with your here and now;
She fell in love with your present.

And the young poet is wanting you;
She fell in love with your laugh and hate;
She fell in love with your air and breath;
She fell in love with your life and death;

And the young poet is dreaming of you;
She fell in love with your softness;
She fell in love with your madness;
She fell in love with your craziness;

And the young poet is thinking of you;
She wants you to come and be true;
She wants you to be her darling;
She wants you to be her everything.

And the young poet is waiting for you;
She wants you to live and be real;
She wants you to bring joy and heal;
She wants you to see how she feels.

When my heart loves not and tears cry no more,
I know I have loved England not any more,
The crush I felt for thee has passed away,
Drowned and died out by the dawn of today,

And inside of me lives a green turmoil,
A venomous desire to ****** away and ****,
I shall be satisfied when there is blood,
The red liquid pouring out from your heart,

And I shall but **** cruelly and madly,
The souls who have stolen my sanity,
Those who falsely flattered my poetry,
Those who have torn my dream and beauty,

And I shall once more be Estefannia,
The heart and soul of evil Jakarta,
One whose heart shows no tinge of mercy,
Who preys on the weak and not feels sorry.

My darling, my darling, my darling,
I writ this that you may be seeing,
I'd writ a poem, a rhythm, a song,
I want you to come and dance along.

My darling, my darling, my darling,
My heart has so much more to say.
If I had all the stars in the world,
Would it have made thou love me first?

My darling, my darling, my darling,
If I were thee and thou wert me,
Would thou have undone the story,
And rewritten my whole love poetry?

My darling, my darling, my darling,
All is dark here and sunlight is gone,
But you live and love there too far away,
I shan't see you tomorrow and today,

My darling, my darling, my darling,
I miss you much and I want you too,
I want not anyone else but you,
To embrace you with a love so true.

My darling, my darling, my darling,
And you'll always be my Immortal,
The one I'll seek for endless nights,
The one I wanted, this morn and last night.

My darling, my darling, my darling,
I want you here to sleep by my side.
Sofia stunned me yesterday once more,
I've loved thee again like never before.

I guess I shall look for another night
By which I canst find precious sleep.
Love, who has gone arrogantly from my side,
As though my soul is too old to weep.

I guess I shall wait for another dawn
To think about loveliness again;
I have no tears; nor a lover or friend,
A famine lies in my cold heartstrings.

Ah, but after t'is gracious bliss,
Shall I see another delight?
A delight, like a furtive light in a tunnel
T'at has startled our amorous night.

Ah, and after this pale jubilee,
Shall I catch another sunlight?
My red sun has run out of blue rays
And now is writhing in its autumn,
Faint with dark flaws and decorated agony.

And t'is prayer, be my witness,
Shall vanish the night and die today.
Perhaps all has just been a dead dream,
And let's not think t'is but a poem.
For a poem is real--and not just a perilous fantasy,
A fantasy t'at thinks of him, like t'at of a sweet dream.
And in my dream, he will be Immortal again,
Whom I fell in love with on a November day
And sought to see over everlasting nights.

And t'is prayer, be my listener,
Shall fear prejudice but fight it not;
For it wants to scream, but it screams not;
For it wants joy, but loathes its malicious taste.

And t'is passage, be my guide,
Demands returns but no turning back,
I hath been betrayed, hath I not?
Perhaps my faith shall rot, and be wasted.

I love Him and him and Him again,
But not with this kind of fatal love,
For I want long endurance, and not mere promises,
For I want one land, and not two premises.

I long for Him and him and Him again,
But such cynicism shan't just go away;
Ah, for I think I shan't ever love Him still,
For my love is betrayed and in great peril.

For love is fragile and evil,
Futile, tenuous, and full of sensations.
For love is too dangerous to have,
And yet it's chosen to have me not;

For love is fake and lyrical,
'Tis itself unvirgin at all,
It itself embraces falsehood,
A lame princess and a dire knighthood.

For love is bland and musical,
Quaint, fanciful, and whimsical;
T'at it mocks but forgives me not;
T'at it forgets but loves me not.

For love is pain and pain is love;
A biased sky of pranks and lies;
For love itself is a feral wound;
Unreal, unfelt, and unfulfilling.

For love is but a slimy substance,
T'at burns and wastes itself away in our presence,
Like my Immortal, t'at has gone through me,
And on one occasion sped through my soul
With a mad charm; bland, fishy, and cold.
I look through the rainbows and cannot find him,
As he's left now, the crystals of my dream,
And journeyed to find indignity in sorrow.
He is not in Sofia again today, but someplace away
Whose name my poetry is not g'na say.
My Immortal, who I dreamt of with life and death,
Now has left me torn, in my distant breath.

And who says lovers shall remain,
Whenst I cannot but feel his presence,
The one who has too important an existence,
The one whose chest was my exile.

And who says love shall come again,
Whenst 'tis all about rigorous pain,
And a lust t'at is never g'na end,
In dust and water, in thunderbolts and rain.

And who says love is pure and solid,
When 'tis something t'at my Lord forbids,
Neither caring nor kind nor gentle,
As ****** and futile as the worlds,

And who but says love is holy,
T'at 'tis all about matrimony,
Whenst I cannot even find marriage,
A love t'at lasts, either chaste or unchaste.

And by one day of rain, I hope for love to die;
I shan't be present there to say goodbye,
It has its own summer and pretty lovers;
It needs me not to release its tears.

And one day by the moon, I'll **** love with my hands,
T'at it'll feel terrible whenst I feel not,
T'at I canst count merrily its dying pulses,
T'at I canst throw it 'gainst its own curses,

And one day at dawn, I'll tear and rip love's mouth,
To rid it of its evil false poems,
To stop it from pricking my veins,
To cut its blood into eight dead parts,

And one day by noon, I'll have love torn in two,
Just like I'll rip those lovers' necks,
And curse against them a long drought,
In which they shall hath naught to eat.

And one day by dusk, I'll have love smashed by rocks,
T'at 'tis too dead to climb the cliffs,
T'at stormy saline shall **** it down,
T'at in plain minutes it shall be gone,

And one day by night, I'll have love crushed into stone,
T'at it'll threat me not on its own,
T'at it comes not whenst I am alone,
T'at it shall die by its own loneliness.

And soon at midnight, I'll pull love to the shore,
And crush and devour it to the core,
T'at my hungry heart shall be glad,
T'at end shall all its drowned feelings,

And at dawn again, I'll bury love in my blood and heart,
T'at it shan't live again anyway,
T'at I shall live to torture it,
I shall live more to burn it away.

And by sunrise then, I'll put love at death's stake,
T'at it won't again be able to wake,
T'at it won't again sing a song or say,
T'at it won't cherish any night and day.

And by my life then, I shall swear my heart;
T'at I shall never fall in love again,
'Till I and my soul are torn apart;
'Till my last breath, 'till I've died in pain.

I see myself swimming in
a thousand thoughts,
but I cannot get to the surface
of people's minds
because their world is too common
and modern
and it hates me.

To the world, creativity is a sin.