There is no hesitation in my love, never;
Each promise is true, even to a liar,
Even to the sun that hath no wings,
I writ my words and stand to their singing.

Shall I die again today, my love?
Shall I die to gain back my serenity;
For I hath loved too dearly, and awfully still,
That heart of thine tells not how I could feel.

Shall I die again in our young haven?
And its loveliness as our own Coventry,
When I daydreamed by her spacious boughs,
Pondering the promises of our sweet love.

Shall I die again by the flirtatious sunlight?
That no sight of mine shall float through the night,
No flame nor fire shall sign my presence,
My doleful glee, that thou hath forsaken.

Shall I die again for thee, my darling?
Hark! The flute that I left wants to sing,
That my poems are read by the dark angels,
That such ceased desires can be aroused.

Shall I die again for thee, and thy lover?
That thou shan’t see me again in November,
Nor breathe my hair every dusky evening,
Like thou didst on Saturday, several times before.

Shall I die at last, by the stricken sun?
For my love struck me as I passed by;
An affection I had so genially thought of,
A warmth that filled me with hysteria of love.

Shall I die today, by her deathly burns?
That thou and thy lover shall scream with delight,
And my fluent poetry is killed in cryptic joy,
Like the abstruse cold thou feel about me.

Or shall I die tonight, by the moonlight?
That all shall chant with blunt amusements,
That the moon sparkles in his summer movements,
That their heated love is spread on to the night.

Shall I die again today, in my solemn haste?
I hath some errands to run and waste,
For what is love without thee, here and there;
For love, without thee, shall be absent everywhere.

Shall I die again at dusk, tonight?
Then I shall see the ragged men and their souls,
Forsaken by the worlds so fishy and foul,
With no winds to attend and cherish their tombs.

Shall I die again then, by today’s twilight?
Then I might meet thee in an ethereal light,
Thou, bathed in fleeting shadows and lethal sight,
Thou, the son of evil floating at dark nights!

And shall I but dream of thee again, o evil!
Thou, who hath mastered my mind and my love,
That I hath been killed by thy rusted sentiments,
And the love I felt hath gone from me again.

Shall I dream again, o thou, o peril!
Shall I witness again such that forsook me,
Shall I be a drink within such tragedy,
Shall I writ, and bequeath my spoiled poetry.

To thee, who hath forgot, and shall have forgotten;
To thee, who accrues from hate,
To thee, who accurses fate,
To thee, who yearns for arrogant love.

To thee, the devil’s son, the rough prince;
To thee, who hath arrayed a tide of sins,
To thee, who loves in hate and hates love,
To thee, who loves in haste and hastens love.

To thee, for whom my love awoke;
To thee, to whom love is a joke,
To thee, to whom a heart is futile,
To thee, who smiles and jokes all the while.

To thee, for whom my love turned awake;
To thee, whom I awaited by the lake,
To thee, for whom I raised my tears,
To thee, by whom I erased my fears.

To thee, whom my desires found true;
To thee, by whom such wishes are never truer,
To thee, by whom visions are clear,
To thee, whom I wish was here.

To thee, whom I hath loved, and still do;
To thee, for whom love hath renewed,
To thee, for whom there shall be tomorrow,
To thee, for whom stands the here and now.

To thee, whom I dearly loved, and still do;
To thee, whom I am about to love now,
To thee, whose love was once so true,
To thee, to whom rage is not rue.

To thee, whom I loved dearly then;
To thee, whom I loved wholly and ardently;
To thee, for whom I drained my heart,
To thee, for whom I tainted my love.

To thee, for whom I could have died;
To thee, for whom the world hath lied,
To thee, my eyes and lips are able to say,
To thee, for whom I awoke silently today.

To thee, for whom I faint with delight;
To thee, for whom there is but no day and night,
To thee, for whom all the wrong seem right,
To thee, for whom fear is not fright.

To thee, for whom idleness is love;
To thee, by whom kisses are not enough,
To thee, who sees into the ****** my soul,
To thee, who listens into my heat, and cold.

To thee, on whom I hath laid my love;
To thee, in whom my past is asleep,
To thee, granted by the One above,
To thee, for none else is t’is love so deep.

To thee, to whom I hath pledged my soul;
To thee, for whom I shall still die,
To thee, who knows not buoyant death,
To thee, who knows only the youth of breath.

To thee, to whom merit shan’t be merit;
To thee, to whom greed is not foul,
To thee, to whom misery is a lie,
To thee, to whom joy is in flesh.

To thee, to whom love is a burden;
To thee, to whom love is a sin,
To thee, to whom scars are not mean,
To thee, to whom the grass is not green.

To thee, to whom words hath no name;
To thee, to whom life bears no song,
To thee, to whom love shall not stay the same,
To thee, to whom all the good might be wrong.

To thee, to whom swords bear no name;
To thee, for whom such stories are told,
To thee, for whom lovesick lines are writ,
To thee, for whom silent pages are read.

To thee, to whom sounds bear but rage;
To thee, to whom love dies by age.
To thee, to whom mortal is love,
To thee, to whom affection shall die.

To thee, to whom there is no avail;
To thee, to whom joy hath died,
To thee, to whom love is a fail,
To thee, to whom love is a lie.

What is love, and what is love not?
That my heart I hath left not;
In anguish, still doth I think of thee,
To hold thee still like I didst once.

What is pain, and what is pain not?
That love is but keen to tell me not;
To consume a raging fire, with a chilly kiss,
To redeem such sunny sins in a loving bliss.

What is blue, and what is blue not?
That I writ not about blue this morning;
The flattered sun hath turned me ill,
I know not how to chill, nor feel.

What is hate, and what is hate not?
To what I see, and what I see not
All must hath been a writhing story
In the genial lies of hungry beauty.

What is a poet, and what is she not?
To what the worlds touch, nor touch not;
All is tales in her lavish charity,
One that most hearts shan't tell.

What is hatred, and what is its enemy?
To what I hear, and what I hear not;
Thou, my love, I saw thee in the forsaken winds
Too full and ecstatic in the realm of meanness.

I'd dream again of the young teal stars
With good and evil in their innocent hearts;
But who else present is to read my tale,
I hath far more words to writ and tell.

I'd think again of the corrupted moon
Roam around the seal of its disrupted circle
I'd catch the culprit behind our pale love
Restore the unmerited view, until all dies.

I hath a longing for a turquoise season
Whose rains hath been but dark and blue
There is no word for t'is reason
Why I loathe 'em all and miss you.

What are tears and what are tears not;
Those that are false and false not,
Those with ugly chords within their hearts
Those with imbecile likes and lively truth.

What are tears and what are tears not;
Tears that stay and stay not,
Tears that can see, but never make haste
Tears that live on and stay chaste.

What are scars and what are scars not;
They who bear contempt to heal,
They who judge, and listen not to us
They who neither leave nor say goodbye.

What are bruises and what are bruises not;
That we are all known for our wounds
Not for our dreams nor real misery
That injuries oft' linger in the bleeding hearts.

I'd dream again of molested shadows;
Those who know hell but not heaven,
Those who hath been heirs of tomorrow
Those who are not told nor seen.

I'd come again in the long run;
In a spectre low, childish and brown,
I hath lent my words and sick arrows to the night
That thou shalt not see me by my dripping light.

I'd have the skies distort my melodies;
With such disgrace they hath buried in me
That my youth shall become sallow and pass away
That it hath been here never, nor today.

I'd have the joys too hard to bequeath;
That they shalt die by the roses' prickly thorns,
I would miss you by the moon and again
I hath failed to love, to make love right for me.

I'd have the delight too riveting for us;
That of the night it hath but no art to absorb,
That no joy shalt be perfect to last,
That all that is mortal shalt have no hope.

I'd have my desires killed, and made to die;
That I could soon begin quivering again,
When time grew wild, I'd give up and lie
I'd perch on white dew and await death's rain.

I'd have my hunger halted, and await to fast;
For winter is not until the pouring rain
And part of my flesh hath the sun passed
A pleasing eerieness to all, and common man.

And in such haste no-one shalt but halt me;
Nor take my good that I ought to do,
I'd sink into my art and feel at peace,
I'd shrink into glass, I'd shrink in thee.

And in such a mess no-one shalt but settle me;
Nor take my bearings that I ought to mend,
For all is drawings, paints that are mortal
Paints that could die, nor see their blackened tomorrow.

All hath splintered and gone to waste;
But I shalt be awake and ripped chaste,
I shalt have the remnants of my chastity in me,
They shalt tower over me, but I cannot see.

All hath turned giddy, but they love not;
That such precious wails hath waned in time,
That another note hath failed to rhyme,
That our roles shalt ne'er be the same.

All hath smiled wide, but they see not;
For all hath lied with cheeks too random
That eyes cannot see and pick with wisdom,
The handsome prince hath sinned and shriveled away.

All hath been strong, but they ***** in dark;
For they are not to read, nor feel the light,
For art hath blinded who are not right,
For art is for those who forgive.

All hath been charmed, but yet they forget;
For art is for those who bear knowledge,
For art is for those who hath their hearts pledged,
For art is for those who are tame.

All hath been brave, but they care not;
None is too tough to embrace the fail,
None is grace nor hope in their tales,
None is too see an artist's amber kiss.

All hath been white, but still they blind;
For their contours are made of heat,
And rust that hath not been forgiven,
All that are empty, and void of wintry wit.

All is a shade, and thou sought me not;
Thou art the sun so that thou seest not,
Nor the flustered ice that lifts my eyes,
Thou hath burnt me, faltered me in lies.

All is a shadow, and thou a nightmare;
All is too bleak that it seems absurd.
Thou hath turned anew from fair,
Thou hath unleashed the darkest fate.

All is widowed, but thou love me not;
Thou hath loved me not to thy avail,
I hath been left about, and wailed,
Thou left yesterday, but now I cry not.

All is sunrays, and I cannot touch;
For all hath gone to the leveled past,
Thou hesitated in a say that lasts,
I want thou not to haunt me.

All is a promise, and a promise falters;
Thou were brief, but could stay longer,
I saw hindrance in thy cheeks and voice
That art came not onto our stories.

All is a blur, and I shan't see you;
For art is for those who are true,
For those whose souls shan't bear prejudice,
For those who delight in a fair bliss.

All is mortal, and thou art not art;
Thou art not the art I believe,
Nor the poetry I breathe to live,
Nor the love I keep in my heart.

All is lethal, and thou art not my tale;
Thou art not the words I write,
Nor the sandalwood candlelight,
Nor the tales I hath to tell.

All is faithless, and art is enough;
Thou art not the faith I hold on to,
Nor hath thy broken love been true,
Nor the one my art wants to love.

What is love, and what is love not;
I cannot feel love any more,
I am asleep in my sick conscience,
I feel dead when it can but breathe.

What is a heart, what is it not;
When my sight is but bathed in pain,
In grief, for no more love hath recognised me;
Nor bribed me for the sake of lust.

What is poetry, and what are words;
For I am not seen within their worlds,
What hath caused me to be so weak,
What hath now ceased to be my love.

What is sane, and what is sane not;
For I hath had my story short,
I am insane in a place I cannot see,
Where my steps cannot place their whereabouts.

Ah, I cannot even feel the air;
My lungs are stuck in such unwavering heat,
My heart is devoid of its past midnight bliss;
I am longing for what used to be me again.

Ah, I cannot even feel such love;
There raised a longing for my lost poetry,
All is not settled and I feel but angry,
I cannot smell and taste the summer rose.

Ah, I am now blind to such delight;
The delight that once carried me to moonlight,
And the butterflies that hummed in my dreams
That I saw them live as I writ.

Ah, I am now blind to such joy!
I cannot mime the animated old song,
For all is greed here—and tainted by greed,
For speed is prime, and conscience is vain.

Ah, I feel weary too much now!
For tomorrows are heavy, and lights are violent,
For on the roads are but violent tumults,
And all the cheeky hot breeze they raise,
I cannot live, nor do I see in such rage.

Ah, I feel savage in too many ways!
The green gardens stay but to mock me,
They are a low illusion to my presence,
An image too unreal to reveal my fate.

Ah, I feel distorted in my imagination;
Even my universe cannot keep its way now,
And I cannot feel my feet steady,
Its hysteria spilling all over me.

Ah, I cannot but feel thirsty;
The sun is too bright that I cannot see,
The moon is too vague that I cannot feel,
My destiny lay too briefly in my arms.

Ah, I cannot feel comforted, no more;
For none in t’eir slumbers shalt hear my word,
They are too busy with their talk, and legs,
Aptly storming about with ugly chores.

Ah, I cannot see in such dry moonlight;
I hath not a soul to fight, but read—
And none bears but a piece of word about me,
With too much to say, too many tongues to feed.

Ah, I cannot but remember the forgot;
To endear to thee like my arms did,
To read and lay about the upcoming moors,
To feel the urge to lay still, like an awed child.

Ah, I cannot but remember my dreams;
The ones so wild that the vibrant remain,
A remembrance of which shalt become my character,
And my character thus, shalt stand not in vain.

Ah, I cannot but long for my shore;
A long shore so cold like that in England,
When ‘tis a shore not, aye, but a solitude,
One I am not to find in such hearts unlike mine.

Ah, I cannot but long for my old oak;
In Coventry, that I saw by pitiful daylight,
But oft’ smiled to me during the hazy winter,
Hanging to me like my dear sweet old friend.

Ah, and I cannot help but writ about thee;
And sing the same cheerful song again,
A song of innocence and lethal youth,
That my midnight sleeps in colours again.

Ah, I cannot but miss that wry smile;
That such crooked lips shalt by satiated by none else,
That such mirth is but to lie within thee alone,
That such joy is not present in thy absence.

Ah, so I cannot but long for thee again;
My moonlit light and twilight friend,
My dark poetry as winter began,
I felt it light on my naked hands.

Ah, so I cannot but feel thee here;
On whom are all my guts and verdant desire,
Whom hath I sweetly, and purely loved,
That I hath loved with unknown bareness, and chastity.

Ah, so I cannot but miss t’at season of thine;
Thy blooming cheeks and lush lavenders,
Those we strolled by in the vigilant autumn,
The ones that would soon die, and wake in a daze.

Ah, I cannot but rest in my dreams again;
My slumbers are now about yon blue fall,
Too sophisticated for a sophomore like me,
In that image too, thou wouldst be by my side.

Ah, I cannot but resent the sun once more;
But it understands not my resenting,
Like a joyless bud it shimmers no joy,
Like every summer that is void of love.

Ah, I cannot but resent its tears;
For such gurgling tears I am not made of,
I am a being of my immortal poetry,
And so my youthful joy too is eternal.

Ah, I cannot but favour thee again;
I feel too chaste for the absent-minded sun,
Too spirited for its imbecile heat,
Too womanly for its sordid jubilee.

Ah, I cannot but resort to thee once more;
I feel too wasted by the impatient wind,
Horrendous and frivolous in its wake,
Hot and sultry to my conscience.

Ah, so I cannot but seek my sweet fall again;
For t’is heat is too godless to share,
For a youthful maiden like me,
All is blind to me, for I cannot stay awake.

Ah, I cannot but seek my same old love;
My solitude is rigid and tough,
Fake in its meridian and lame singing,
And its heated leaves smelling sour.

Ah, I cannot but yearn for my rhymes;
Filled in fall with sweet grapes and thyme,
I used to write by the old lime tree,
The ice and cold washing all over me.

Ah, I cannot but long for long writ;
By the golden brass and old riverbanks,
Where all goes dark and becomes dusk too soon,
When clean, free air but satiates my mouth.

Ah, I can but feel such love now, and longer;
There exist too many tales to tell,
My heart hath fallen to Coventry’s midnight grass,
And with its existence, cometh again the image of thee.

Ah, I cannot but tame such love, no more;
To spend every word at the same old pace,
Bear my flavour in darkness and haze,
Writ damp poetry by the bashful chest.

There is not much of me now, my Northern Light;
I hath been too torn to tell of my deeds,
I am a broken soul now, emerging from an invisible pit;
I hope the sun shall clear though, that I can but delight in belated rain again.
Rain, on thy forested land, that I hath begun to long to taste;
Coming to me like a five-year-old nymph: a succulent playmate,
Shadowing me but in cheerful grins and tireless haste,
What funny terms t’is little creature makes sense of!
Ah, a little one that brightens and salutes my days,
With lyrical giggles often stunning the entire forests of glee around me—
And taking my breaths away in dozens of waves of fierce smoke
That I often pause my breaths, feeling privilege and triumphant
Amidst its innocent odors, smudged with green hues and damp visions.
I feel comfortable then, as my pulse speeds and moans with delight
Spilling onto us from the brave storm above, as I always do.
Tasting rain, I shall twitch and sway around again with laughter, wisdom, and patience
That were undeniably stolen from me; leaving me in a deafening whine of tears.

They but told I did not belong, I was foreign, and so were my streaks of song;
My justice was but not their equal, I was a liar, I was wrong.
I was too humble to notice, I was too unarmed.
I was too innocent to be their companion—improvident and reckless beings!
No delicacy flashes across their eyes, neither do sympathy or softness.
All I could see was scorching hate and heat, shimmering in a blinding, officious smirk.
I was ample and blused oft’ with shyness—how come they came and stole my tranquil peace!
How ignominious and disgraced the whole nation is, who believes
that our own skin shall save us, unmerited and soulless!
How immature, timid, and vile; imbeciles that inherit only rainbows of sarcasm.
And what told they of my poetry, in such recursive envy and hate;
With disgust they said to me; ‘tis not my beloved, nor my fate.
They claimed I lived one life—and three souls too late, that I understood what life meant not;
They thought all was but a wealth of infamy around me, and I was rife with unseen disease.
I was a creature not to fall in love with, I was a disgrace;
I was ungodly, a shoddy strand of leaf to be killed unborn.
They figured I smelt like the withered summer weather;
Not a fit for their chilly smokeless air!

The air there smelt fondly like their absence of love;
And though it was silent, they were silent not,
It was a joy for them to ****, and to see my blood spill,
They said yet I knew not how to taste and feel.
It was as if I could not feel my own blood,
Nor that I could locate my gut’s instincts.
And what thought they of my ****** story;
For my presence was a nightmarish joke to all,
And I was a meaningless and too joyous of a little bud,
A small lavender which poorly knows its enemies and their fetal tongues,
That roses can sting and steal one or two of its crescent seeds!
Ah, and I was that degraded bland-smelling little bloom,
The mindless bloom t’ be plucked in their spring garden—harvested before my time;
That I shall cry and weep my blood out of me, in burning pain,
Destructing all my jutting illusions once again, without knowing why,
And finding my fierce heart, the next second, lying still!
That I think of my Immortal no more, and his face accusably so white and lean
For he has been forgetful of the love he once sustained;
His love, dimmed by the greed around his whole figure
Unsupported by the angered nature about him—which he barely sees.
Hungry for flesh, he is a snake of untold regret and hate;
Powdered with deadly lies only, in his season of love.
Bathed in austerity, and in his own madness running;
Running into the nowhere of my dreams, and dies finally, as I wake from my sleep.
I saw no compassion in his eyes, on those last old days, and after I left,
All that was dead not I deep buried,
I oft’ dream of him burning and rotting his own scattered life,
Melting his own flesh into a rogue wave of sins,
Questioning his divinity with rage that he himself be ragged before he knows it.
And so unseeingly he curses and is consumed by his own karma,
Gathering his own bulleted skins and fleshes by a knife,
But in doing so betraying his own domain of conscience,
Depriving him of ample wan pleasure, tumbling himself vehemently into death.
Scorching death that feeds but from our departing shades of life,
And shrieks in agony when no ferocious air growls at midnight.
Ah, at my dismantled nights in England but I once gave thought of thee;
Thou wert there in my perpetual mind, but not so inquisitive as my English journey was.
O, Northern Light, I was but all shivers upon their first mention of thee!
And so there was I, unknown to the English world but heard fairly of thy name;
That I, at times, thought of the Northern Light, aside from my streams of cries and desperation,
And the noble autumn on its land, when in my fluorescent night slumbers,
I’d love to dally on top of fall’s rebellious moors—and ah!
I can see my love, flapped with his native pride, storm down the maroon roads.
I can see his wait for me, encapped by forty feet of snow on a mountaintop,
ready for my warming fingertips and embrace whenever he thinks of me.
Ah! Though there is sun not on thy lofty linen land, my Northern Light;
I am grinning with joyous tears in sight of thy snowy night,
My dreams have finally drawn me to thy visible lines,
And soon, I shall have to renounce my weary sunshine.
I want to break free, enormous with youth and vibrancy;
With affluent rhymes and delightful vibes that come in time.
Poetry, for it has become one of my salient features;
A concise concoction of my soul, that I love in laugh and hate.
My daydreaming has not been too bad, for I have seen the fun once more;
I was too selfish to open my eyes and see its truth.

Come to me, my Northern Light, and shall I have to perish later along with age
into blue nothingness, I shall not die inside out;
For I know thou shalt come to help my toil
And relieve it of grease and oil;
filling my light up before it turns out.
I, who hath been consumed and decried within two sad springs;
I, who was made to survive an agitation and pain
Only by a jug of comforting cold,
Hath now left my past with a single shrug;
And so I hath dreamed of bouncing back into thy arms,
Thy arms that are too cold at first—to my fragile feet
And swim into thy hands that shall all but know me to well;
Blame me not for the fateful pairs of stories of mine, to tell.

And who are they anyway, to enjoy poetry whenst they see not?
They, whose shadow is to fall into death within the first three days—
But acknowledge the slim presence of death not, among us.
They, whose ******* glisten with envy, and a displeased countenance;
Haunting every guileless soul, dancing over their dismantled beings
Although they bear no trace of hate towards their very eyes.
All I see of ‘em is a beast, that encaps and murders decisively within a short breath;
None of them is eager to touch the deep,
Nor to be kind and set their hateful souls alight,
They are a boastful ally of the devil, far in their forest’s central gloom,
A hell by the deadly babbling brooks, sending water into every undying leaf
That all shall die within the unstable touch of their hands.
They are a bunch of strange apparitions that mock every treasured sight;
A rough incubus, waiting for every foreign man’s headlong fall,
They live only to scorn, ****** and fight,
Penetrating every fortune’s secrets, poignantly tearing their kind walls.

Not seldom that I began to wonder, in all my recursive roamings;
I wanted to see and listen to thee, ah, what a warming sound of thy Eolian lute there was!
All was in vast vain, for I was conceited to hear of my own vision;
Nor proceed my learnings, I was stupidly void of hearings, and rich with shortcomings!
My conscience was too thin, that I wrote when I heard not—and drew
when I saw not, ah, I was unable to hear thee, my love!
For everything I could see was but, in my red dreams, thy roads and their unspoken lines;
Telling me that I was dreaming and all wouldst be fine.
I failed to see though thou wert but very, very kind!
All was a parade around me and ah, yet I could see not,
Its loudly thumping winds but made me blind,
Squinting into the gust, all but myself I could not identify;
My whole soul was absorbed by its minutiae of unbearable pain.
Belligerent and poisonous, the circle was bitter as dread;
Sordid in life, uncivilised and mortified in death.
Aye, how I struggled hard to break free myself, from those violent thorns!
Finally all was clear, and I saw the vital path to light; ah, my Northern Light!
Now I can see again, I am grateful for having not capitulated to my desires.
My poisoned desires, that once retained me;
I am thankful that I hath wriggled free.
Ah, Northern Light, it seems that thou hast so much to tell;
I do not know, yet, how it all shall begin.
I shall dwell on thy grounds so well;
the grounds so beneficent and keen in the first place.
I have not heard of thy sweet voice;
I have known but thy cherry-red stories.
Stories as original as my love;
Willingly given to thee, should thou lift my heart away
and within one saturated breath, amaze and steal which from me.
Stories with red kisses plastered over its blushing pages;
Stories with a shy tint of love; that love of ours that demands recognition.
Stories with hugs and passion that are yet still unborn;
waiting for the frozen night to become known.
Oh, we all should seek the tremor our loving hands hath caused;
And a newly replenished joy, yet, that they hath so lovingly unleashed.
A new, formal joy, that delights both in giving and returning.
My Northern Light, I may love thee and seek delight within thee only;
The fire of thee has consumed the living of me violently,
and I have begun to see my other living side,
cheerful and jubilant may I be, on my front days.

Come to me, my Northern Light, lure me into thy sacred idle night;
When the time of our fate washes ashore, and all the wrongs shall turn right,
And all the fires grow into rain, multiplied by the benevolent immortal knight,
Who shalt fly as King of the Skies, whilst burning out the prejudiced sunlight.

Come to me, my Northern Dawn, moisten me with thy Victorian dew;
Draw me closer to thy sonatas, a realised romance written by bare hands
Bringing another vigorous pleasure to our reluctant bliss
And removing the worries of our juvenile present, marking it as the new Truth.

Come to me, my Northern Dusk, flirt with me like thou didst not with one;
Wish our hearts luck, and fight so our triumph be won,
Thou shalt **** hate with thy sword of victorious words,
Satisfactory to our chests, infallible to the sniggering worlds.

Come to me, my Northern Lamp, tempt me into the army of curling winds;
Rub my shoulders again the beguiling sweet rains, charm me away,
Far in the dark I shall be generous to thee, calming like wine,
I wouldst love to fall into the sky by thy wings again.

Come to me, my Northern Sky, envelop me in thy starlet dawn and blanket;
I want to embrace thy northern grass and tulips, and paint some rainbows,
To read some lullaby beneath the benign sky, and its amulets,
To write some poetic words, and sing them today and tomorrow.

Come to me, my Northern Sea, may thou enjoyest thy grounds’ cold clay;
That my wondrous script shall touch and place upon it a play,
Announcing my ragged arrival on the harmonious soil,
Adjusting myself to the convenient steep hills.

Come to me, my Northern Song, may thou be blessed without and in the unknown;
May thou remember the words of my late vow, o my attractive love,
May I in abundance love thee more, after my formative alone,
May this love grow strong, undeniable, and tough.

Come to me, my Northern Sun, bewitch me once more and entrap my mind;
That thou give birth but to a revitalised summer, young and free,
That this immortal joy shall last, like the oblivious moon,
Held hostage by thy beauty, whose half thou hath shared onto my soul.

Come to me, my Northern Rain, make me rejoice in the swirling autumns;
When the greens turn red and all shall die and wake again,
That we shall remain friends until tomorrow and delight,
Delight, that comes to us when we are united fellows.

Come to me, my Northern Grass, be dry and wet and tickle with pleasure and again;
Fulfill my heart with lithe atonement, for my graceful sins,
And by thee, I shall neither be dangerous nor unchaste,
I shall be a ******; my moonlit quest is just about to begin.

Come to me, my Northern Guide, heal my wounds and lingering past scars;
Scars that are immortal and once tormented my dreams,
I hath forgiven them with my tender cares,
Releasing them back prettily, into their domestic jubilees.

Come to me, my Northern Moon, in the merit of haste and run;
Nibbling thy water lilies as thou pass, and flying through the floating grass,
Thou shalt find me within the cheeks of Jakarta, in my cornered walk,
Moving around with unease, void of any candlelight spark.

Come to me, my Northern Star, thou art as warm as thou art cold;
My reason to keep on longing, and hold on to thy unmolested warmth,
That the cruel Coventry can thaw me no more;
Neither shall its herons fly over my untouched shore.

Come to me, my Northern Soul, so that I can be free;
Let me not be engulfed by the breathless dawn, and twilight,
Slide me free from the strain of tropical grief and sunlight,
I want to feel cold once more, all through the day and night.

Come to me, my Northern Tale, and hear me over the shrieking winds;
Let me steer my journey to thy mortal land, unite us as we have been;
Live inside me and feed my blood, make me known and beguiling;
Scoop me into thy arms, picture me asleep and welcoming.

Come to me, my Northern Poem, make me hear what thou couldst promise;
Make me twitch with delight, and shout pleasure within thy hands,
And sign that very night as my time of rebirth;
Pleasant and pure, free from the past sins and filth.

Come to me, my Northern Love, make my ****** soul glow green again;
Find thy way to me by my marked boughs of love,
My journey and love hath but not ended yet,
Thou shalt breed and unite with me—in our timeless breath.

Pieces of the night fly through the air;
And dawn on me did the dry morning;
A flaccid one with no creative fair
And, in that noise, I found myself drowning.

Where is my love and his madness young;
For all he thinks of has been lost long;
My ******'s soul has been provoked
So I must **** to relieve the shock.

With these vitriolic beasts by my side,
I can laugh but with a millstone heart;
And see them with a rancorous sight
In search of the poems t'at were burnt apart.

With the brutal sun upon my hair;
I can but think of drowning somewhere;
T'at some scorching fire shall eat of my remains;
I want not to live, nor t' be seen again.

Like a ghastly shadow, growing and fleeting and fading;
Like a curse t'at blows through my head;
Like there is stay no more, but escape
Like there is love no more, but ****.

Like there is life no more, but death;
Like there is hope no more, but grief;
Like life within the trolley of silence
Like joy within the cold arms of abstinence.

Like cries encompassed by withered tears;
Like a true love that has to crawl through sorry fears.
Like a ****** by that one insisting charm of thee;
Like the loveliness thou awakened within me.

Like a piece of letter so warm as poetry;
Like its magnificent sight, that is fuller than I am.
Like a snowfall whose beauty never dies;
Like the conceited sun, who shuts down in its own lies.

Like tears that have been too much;
And the delight that was once too brief.
Like my languid soul, feeling too short of breath;
Like a dead tree, not too content in its death.

Like summertime's egregious armour;
Who favours evil and amorous glamour;
I have always hated the sun, I truly have;
I detest it for its futile destiny and mirth.

I have always hated the sun's offspring;
For they are perpendicularly singing;
A song that my heart wants not to hear
A haughty melody I never wrote.

I have always hated its dull crimson lights;
And the yellow codes in its circles;
And so I'll never allow it into my heart
In life and in death, united or apart.

Like the heavens' bountiful delight;
I shall wait for thee in thy wise daylight;
I shall come again, I shall come back
I shall step up from t'is wretched wreck.

I shall return to my immortality;
Like t'ose in my dearest tales and poetry;
In the beauty of old stories told;
I am a creature of the night and cold.

But not that of the morning and sun;
All is folly by the sickly moon;
Pampered just like their sickly wordlings;
Evil in their mouths and wrongdoings.

To them there is no sleep between life and death;
Nor there is peace in their realms of slumber;
And their rivalry, which ends at their tombs
Among those who have retreated, back home.

Where is my lover now? My dreams are bad;
And so is my saddening soliloquy;
For it tells not of my solitary silence
I would want not to see it in person.

Where is my lover now? My dreams are mad;
There is no meaning within all these songs;
For my story lies just in thee
'Tis crying out not to them, not anymore;

Where is my lover now? My dreams are sad;
They could but here my hoarse voice;
T'is world is but vileness and evils
And the real me is not here, but there.

Where is my lover now? I am dreaming too late;
But that my heart shan't cry any more;
There are, though, more dancing legs on the moors
And so my gardens are by thy frozen doors.

I am trapped, but not afraid that it shall last;
For the ice and snow shall come to free me;
I left my sunny past and shall leave again
To meet you again in thy most beautiful seasons.

Below me, there is yet a tower fat and small;
But stands not in it a quiet reading hall;
Whose soul says as many lies as the emeralds
With such immeasurable words but false.

As my love for thee is the one wild reason;
For me to wait for the fall season;
In which the pink buds shall again turn grey
Like the love I've felt again for thee, today.

As my love for thee is the foolish sin;
For me to wait while 'tis not seen;
Where I but glimpse just the sunny leaves
That breathes not so long as poetry lives;

As my love for thee is the maddest thought;
For me to wait whilst there is no hope;
That I feel still, when my heart is broken
That I long still, when no love is given;

As my love for thee is the breakthrough;
For me to seek when I shan't see through
To long for fall where all is green
To dream of a far visage, unseen;

As my love for thee is immortal;
For 'tis love is as undead as you are;
And I love thee in each wind and breath
Just like I'll love thee in life and death.

The deeper I step, the darker it grows;
And I hath the time to argue not;
Not even to open my frozen mouth;
I do not know what stands in there.

The farther I walk, the colder the breeze;
Even t'is anguish shall dry and freeze;
For I have no more tears to wash it out;
Nor the sight to keep it all awake.

The longer I stride, the moonlight faints;
And I am but alone to pray to the saints;
I have to head back before night fails;
You are yet too far, and 'tis now too late.

You are not here with me, not in my voyage;
Thou who left my love at a young age;
And 'tis unlike I was thy fine one;
I was the ******, the cursed, the worthless to thee.

You are not here to hear me, nor my poem;
You are not here to save my asylum;
And you have shrugged your chest in horror
You, who condemned me for another love.

Like those branches, my heart hath stitches;
As autumnal as t'ey can be, they hurt not;
Not having been cut short nor alone;
Sweeping not t'ose quiet forlorn melodies.

On those branches, where there are holy songs;
Swinging from where they sit together;
The lady angels bow down and laugh;
Just like I used to live and love.

On those leaves, that no longer live;
Is the fresh bloom as 'twas yesterday;
Wreath'd too red on thy cheeks and lips;
Lips that have gone, nor shall kiss me again.

Here I am alone, alone and without thee;
With such tales t'at are long buried;
I am killed by yon trance every day;
'Tis like thou haunt me nigh' and day.

Thy voice rises and dies and rises again;
'Till it surprises me every now and then;
Yet thy long moves are barely here;
Just like the rustles that I hear no more.

I am startled and stupefied and startled again;
I am too alarmed by my own red voice.
I shall sit until dawn fights hard to resume;
But here I'll be, jailed by my own poem.

And who knows what sorrow shall mean;
Whether it means tears, justice, or just memory;
Who knew I'd but be here today and tomorrow;
Because fate is not for mine to grasp, nor to see.

And there is no abundance of moon or light;
But these tiles and floors of snow, somehow;
I'll sleep basked in that cursing cold, tonight;
Without thee nor my candlelight, anyhow.

And there is no abundance of love, in between;
All is blurry yet elegant and unseen;
Those who know not what my heart shall mean;
T'is solitary being, alone 'mid the deadly rain;

Ah, but thou art too polite and nice to be here;
With songs blended far into the crowds;
Its hymns and rhythms made for hot dances;
In the summer of chaotic bliss and faces;

And I, the ordinary poet of the beyond;
Whose words are oft' left crisps and unshaken;
Whose gimmick oft' remain untold;
Never reaching its bashful prelude;

And I, the loathed poet and magician;
Who says I am friended and not alone;
Who says t'is place is but magical to me;
Who says I am guileless and innocent.

And I, the deserted and the weak;
Unlike thy affluent dust and water;
Am just like my nymphic soul within;
Crying silently into the barbaric rain;

And I, the poet, too naive for thy kisses;
Not even ashes nor tea of the sweet sea;
I, the loner, who writes only skinny dead words;
Unborn for thy rustic love and worlds.

I, the cold, the one for the cold and winds;
Who lives not the weight of thy summer breeze;
Nor witnesses the height of hot gravity;
And better be left in t'is drained insanity.

And I shalt but sit here and strive to writ;
Bearing t'ese itchy wrists and breezes;
With my bleeding gloves and apparel;
Waiting for love t'at shan't ever come.

And I shalt but not twitch nor tread back;
For my name is now an all-dead wreck;
Enthralled by some and yet misery to chests;
I shalt seek not to go back and rest.

And I shalt dream here and not come home;
They shalt want me not but have some;
To drink with loud cheeks and wild fervour;
To live and to die, to breathe even in their deaths.

And I'll be lost in my daydream of you;
Though just a lie t'at shall not be true;
I'll wander now until I find the shore;
Ye' unlike thee, I may not be alive any more.

And I'll be lost in the dark of winter;
That I and thee shan't be together;
Unlike said by the handsome tale I saw;
I am dark and dead to thee, from now.

And ask ye why these red tears stream?
Why these damp eyes are wan with weeping?
I had a dream--a lovely dream;
Of him that in her arms is sleeping.

I saw him as 'twas yesterday,
The bloom upon his cheek still beaming;
And round his waist was a golden ray,
And on his brows were purple notes playing.

I saw him as 'twas yesterday,
The smile upon his lips made 'em red;
As though he'd ne'er go away today,
And be naughty still, in his tousled head.

With devil-smile he swept a lyre,
A garland red with roses bound it;
Its strings were knitt'd with lambent fire,
And poems of love printed above it.

I saw him 'mid those spears of light,
Dimmed not by the flight of the night;
Or wouldst the golden sun make him arise,
To wake me from these beautiful lies.

I strove to reach him, and behold,
Those fairy forms of Victorian angels;
And all that rich scent wrapped in blue gold,
Smelled by me from behind the walls!

And he smelled like those one thousand lilies,
Engulfed beneath the fiery daffodil sky;
Entwined in dawn's naive live poesies
Who could breathe not, and were soon t' die.

And I awoke, oh! But to me
Though my waking moon was too hazy;
And to wake up was so dreary,
I envy and hate my own fantasy.