Immortal, Immortal, my very own Immortal, can you still even hear me? I wanted to mention another, but instead I am calling out your name.

Immortal. That is how I always called you, little darling; you really are like a little darling, with your bulbous brown eyes and solid red mouth. With your sweet-flavoured jokes and archaic compulsions. You are like a buoyant flower that often speaks from its inside. You smell just like the black sweater you are always encircled in; you smell like one array of strawberries, lavenders, and musk blended into one wondrous potion. Ha-ha. You are wild; you are free; you are the inborn sweat of stormy nature itself. But to me you are the one chosen. You are like a youth that never blossoms; a sky that knows not the litter of adulthood. You are my sweet, my elegance, my butterfly.

But you always failed to catch a butterfly. Once there was one who briefly landed on your shoulder; in an attempt to hurl his little self back into the solidarity of the skies. You sang about the whole world like the moon did; but you were never incarcerated within your universe. Instead, you created even a more passionate one.

Immortal, Immortal, where are but you, my love? I peruse His verses and cite His name every day; in order that you feel my affection and touch even just the slighted shadow of mine, in your dreams. Bygone memories are still rowing within my head; and as their sheen touches my lips; I am sure I shall see you again, when He decrees. Ah, Immortal, how I want to see you become pure; and unite yourself with Him within his fortress, my love flowing beside you, freeing you from this world's ungodly torture.

Obicham te. I miss you, my dear, more than hysteria can assume; nor any disparity can have thought of. My morning dew, my noon, my sunset, all are but attended in thee.

Obicham te. Obicham te. Obicham te.

I miss you so much. Sadly, perhaps you'll never know that.

Look far at th' showering rain!
Dull and gray it is with old pain,
and how nature now shrieks in vain-
until no more cloud but remains.

How t'is misty day shalt insist;
and too tempest'ous to desist.
But how thy lithe feet shalt still dance!-
And doth entrance everyone's glance.

Antonina, Antonina
Sweet and graceful ballerina
Spin and spin again like a swan;
in circles t'at'll never be done

Antonina, Antonina
Who shalt but know thy darkest fear?
With t'ose movements t'at seem so dear
but no-one sees thee by eyes clear.

Th' night I saw thee walk by home
Passed thou th' yard and hollow tombs
A golden trophy's in thy hand
Whereth suddenly in sprang some men.

What merciless, heartless creatures!
Thy ****** body t'ey ruptured!
And escaped 'em when all was done
Wept thou amongst t'ose leaves alone.

Amidst trees and grim foliage
I smelt th' foulness of plain rage;
Forward dashed I into th' screen!
Blood on thy thighs, bruised wasth thy skin!

I stood still at t'is pure menace;
thou spread t'ere like a brutal mess!
Screamed and wailed in a hasty blaze;
upon thy gazeth onto my face.

I shuddered with blasts of fury!
As I thought of t'eir cruelty!
T'ose ungrateful sons of evil
T'eir souls'd be ****** in great peril.

I walked thy little body home-
and kept thy by the fireside warm.
How in my arms thy'rt once conscious
With t'ose eyes big and curious.

Thou looked at me, thou questioned me
I just nodded and smiled gently
How I wanted to run in shame
Afraid thou might then knoweth my name

And how thou crashed to sleep once more
As soon as we opened the door
How I kissed thy warm and bruised forehead;
and thy drying tears didst I shed

Antonina, Antonina
Never did thou know my daydreams
How t'at tragic night they came true
In t'is cru'l world thou'rt th' victim
When th' stars sleep in a light hue

Antonina, Antonina
T'is passion shalt never be real
As thou'd never know how I feel
Thy childhood and thy faithful friend
With loveth you wisheth from 'ot'er man.

But how in thy smile now thou weepeth!
After such a mis'ry so deep!
How he's gone to tie his wedlock
When th' sun but strikes twelve o'clock.

How he left thee after t'at night!
And ran away with grief and fright.
Th' youngeth maiden he wasth to wed,
but in her woes then he just fled!

Antonina, Antonina
Unanswer't as my prayer is
I shalt but free thee from all t'is;
when thou conquereth thy memories.

Let me be thy chin and shoulder;
let me bringst thee'th truest wonder.
I who loveth thee just thou art now;
and relieveth thee from thy sorrow.

But a spectator as I am,
can I just watch thy pristine fame!
From th' stage art thou now to smile,
as people sound 'plause for a while.

And in thy sorrow wilt thou weep
Until blushing dawn slowly creeps.
No-one comforts thee in thy sleep;
no-one frees thee from thy hardship!

But unworthy as here I am
Like a flower without its stem
Can I wish you joy, my lady!
And only joyeth I prayeth for thee.

Pure still thou art, Antonina!
Thy stateliness shalt never die;
not even if th' world could lie
Thou'rt as lovely as th' rainbow
T'at I'll long to see tomorrow.

Blest be thy days, Antonina!
Thou'rt still my queen but here and now
As th' snow melts and sun hangs low
As winter breaks and summer comes
'Tis still thee I want in my arms.

Thy innocence, thy innocence is more than what words have to say
Passionate face with youth that shall never decay
Oh, and stay mute amongst those bitter roses of May;
vanished worlds are real to me today.

Yester' firmly thou startled the wooden door
And grinningly stepped into the carpeted floor.
Vibrant speeches then thou began to tell;
thy voice silenced souls like a spell!

And how nature celebrated thy sound-
ah! as I could feel it on my bare ground.
Look! How those wheels just whirled round and round-
but bits of thy keen presence they never found.

Windy were just the dusky moors
Just as the brisk rainfalls turned worse.
Rattling against frail, murky hedges,
sweeping over cross, old shaky branches.

O! But shy, shy were thy glistening cheeks-
with shadows that were genuinely sweet!
Charming thy crowds with pretty wit-
as the new night grew darker and bleak.

Ah! But times for thou are forever;
while songs to thee are just curious and everlasting.
As death thou shalt never encounter;
with a life as long and unbending.

Aye! With that gaze so listless and melancholy-
but days so suspicious and full of poesy!
Thy steps still light but not playful;
amongst those tasks too hasty and dreadful.

Oh! Vivid clarity, and its colourful rainbows
are like the talents thou decently show.
Thy modesty might they but adore
Lightly and gaily, later and before.

O my willow! Thou art the fir tree to my green ferns;
dust and pale fire are thy dignified young heirs.
Last time when their suffering was hard and stern-
resolve thou did, their lonesome affairs.

And how dreary this smoky haze-
that once put me in grayish days!
But now strangely it has it been lifted-
and my whole conscience has now returned.

Ah! And how thou, thou wert there, once more!
As soon as I escaped from my dry stupor
and to safe convenience I restored;
thou wert within, just behind the door.

But like singing clouds thou drifted away again-
undead and undying, just like souls shalt always remain.
For thou there might never be tomorrow;
for thou art still, in thy here and now.

Who art thou actually to me?
That is certainly a difficult question;
to which I might have been able not
to giveth a precise answer.
Thou who were yesterday a friend;
and who conversed even so casually
with me back then;
now hath so dearly caught me
and captivated me
that I am not sure of who thou art;
and what room doth thou possess
within th' very kingdom of my heart.
Ah, and tonight, at this very rigorous,
and laborious night
Thou lured and tempted me into thy charms;
and embraced me within thy friendly realms.
Oh, querida, how I want thee too much-
simply too much!
Mi carino, mi amor;
and in fairy tales, as they are supposed to be
Thou would be my senor
And my maiden self thy senorita.
Mi amor de la príncipe!
If only thou knoweth-of how much I desire thee!
But I was sure not-it was but seemingly
unforgivable uncertainty;
whilst thou sat there and laughed beside me;
and I gazed into those patient eyes of thine.
I love thee tenderly, as thou doth emerge
within my silent dreams;
I love thee dearly, as thou didst, tonight,
craved and shaped the wit
and wise sweetness of my heart.
Thou art no-one else but my fiery dreams;
ah, thou art the one I love-
the only one I love indeed!
Thou, with the music of thy soul so sweet,
which captured my emotions so swiftly;
and entangled my passion so sweetly.
Ah, tonight-just tonight,
how thou endorsed my feelings,
and cured my daring longings!
As though in a wakeful dream,
no matter absurd it may seem;
this I declare with unbearable-
yet steady sureness:
I would love thee, surely and tranquilly,
and I hope just that thou would love me
Just like thou art already inside me;
and just how fate hath so fiercely placed
this very dear heart of mine, within thee.

To be here, to be there, and not to be;
   Thou hath the whole rivers inside of me,
Thou art a night, a lonely sunny day;
   That hath melted my souls away.
To be thy blood, thy lover, thy asylum;
   To dwell within thee, to become thy poems.
Thou hath carried all my dried wounds away;
   Thou art meant for me, and I shall stay.

Their peaceful songs, too much noise;
   Titled feuds, crowned falsehoods,
My homeland, unknown to my youth;
   Stealing my sanity, my warmed voice.
Their music too, from a broken home;
   Telling me they would ne’er come;
My hometown, yet foreign to me;
   Adrift in bulk, losing my poetry.

To be here, to live, but not to see;
   Yet to be unchained, and break free,
Thou art a yard, a bush, a pear tree;
   Thou yield the whole love inside of me,
Thou stirred the birth of my presence;
   Thou breathed love to my concerns.
Thou art my reverence, my faith;
   Thou revoked my disgrace, my hate.

Their masterpiece, vainly serene;
   When they could sing, I was not seen;
Too common, like the youth about us
   Not knowing when life could go past.
Today shall end, but merely so
   They could not smell yesterday, no;
Nor shall their hard grieves glance further,
   Now, everlastingly, forever.

I long to be in tales faraway;
   That they shall not see me in today;
Not in winter, nor the heat of June;
   Not in daylight, nor under the moon.
Not in water, nor stark frost;
   They could not see me under their rose;
Then I could break free, I could see you
   To tell you about the truth, to give you—my love.

One island is too grey to me;
   To the southern edge of Earth;
If I said I could sail for thee;
   Would thou be my tree, my hearth?
But not to be here, ever and again;
    To clear my soul of their sold pain,
To be alone, but I could be fine;
    To head to the North with my mind.

One soil thought she was too charming;
    Nor that I knew them, that morning,
And in spring, their snarky heirs
    Bowed down to *** and stark roses;
None of what I did look fair,
    Nor the clean spruce of my prose.
Everywhere I went, just the ground
    Grinning kindly at my crusted sounds.

One land was too high, and glamour
    Encapped the heights of its odour;
Encompassing the love I had, and here
    This is the land of birth, but hear—
Love is felt nowhere close to me, so
    I shall be bound to the other I know;
I shall launch my sails, and my voyage
    Departs at time’s coming of age.

One ground became too proud, and he
    Lifted himself off the myriads of me;
The rebel, the judge, the jubilant
    The only consolation I wanted;
He could not catch in me, my sanctity
    And all love putrefied, and died.
To whom, that I became, still a mystery
    A waste, a wailing, a soiled story.

To run free, to breathe away from here
   To become the whole calls I hear;
Being the roads with stars and sunlight
   By the rosebuds of the Northern Light.
To be the prominent in me, and to thee
   That I come home, every day and night;
To be free to love, and blindly sing
    Until dawn comes to force, on chaste mornings.

To come closer, to be with you
    To drift away from wrong to true;
And call my love back again, from the woods
    Planted wild in mists and dreamful shadows.
To call you home, by the green fields
    With careened paths and gravel shields;
To be the poet again, the one I have—
    To embrace all that I once left.

To be thy finger, thy wrist, thy face;
   To be sole white and pure of lace;
To be the accessories of thy dreams;
   To be the wife of thy white nights.
When thou heard the frost, and screamed;
   My nights went more fearful then they seemed,
Too much fate and moist, poorly blended;
   My nightmares then ne’er ended.

To be the living, the door, the house;
   To drench the desires thou aroused,
To be the winter, the lilac to behold;
   To be felt as my love goes too bold,
And not ignored as I go beyond;
   Not to be halted, be scorned, be torn,
I have loved every day, every night—
   Then I have dreamt of your bluest sight.
  
To cherish my breath, my air, my chest;
   The living power of all our flesh,
The hungriness, but knowledge of my heart
   Not to take our exchanged poems apart;
For I have played my part, and kept my love
   For you, and as here ‘tis not enough;
I have loved, and unloved again
   My heart hath been a scorching pain.

To swim in this image of thine, and see
    Which memory I shall keep to me;
In which my arts shall come to presence
    From noon to night, and prevalent;
In which t’ere is only omnipresence
    With luminous pages, and their scent;
Too ambiguous too deny, clear to hate
    They shall admire it, though ‘tis late.

To be the vine, and grapes of thy yard
    To be the fine fruits of toil, so hard;
To be the last one to read the sky, that
    I shall still embrace, to the last.
Not to be here, in that life again;
    Only the sorrows and dramas of pain,
I shall soar for a greater gain;
    Feeding off clouds, drinking the rain.

To be the tales, rhythms of my heart;
    To admire from far away,
And unite back again when ‘tis time;
    All those cascades of madness and solitude;
Now, all smaller poesies shall rise and rhyme;
   Calling the same hymns and magnitude;
I shall be there, and not long now—
    I’ll stand still, and not flinch somehow.

To be the dress, the fashion of my love;
    My feelings now imitate the skies,
All emotions are moderate, and enough
    My heartbeat shall tell no lies;
Then, all torn sonnets cross my mind;
    At that time though, thou shall be mine;
I shall be there soon, tomorrow—
   Wait for me there, as thou shall know.

To be the kind, the temperate of my heart
   To be the pen and the poem, the bard;
All notions are justified, and seen
    It shall be autumn that I arrive in;
When, all stanzas clearly written
    And all workings exotic and firmed;
At that time though, thou shall see—
   All the loving and excitement in me.

To be the warmth, the sustained cold
    And the reason my sight still beholds;
All thoughts are visible, and bearable
    All daydreamed paths grow’n feasible;
That, all visions notably bound
    Thou shall embrace my tones and sounds;
With graceful moves, lithe and sleek
    I cometh to love thee, every day of the week.

To be the charm, the one in thy arms
    I shall surrender to Midnight’s swarms;
And be the one for thee, for the night
   Over all brief and lengthy sights;
There, holding thee all winter and summer
   A destination that lasts forever;
At that time soon, thou shall love me
   And my presence of eternity.

To be the destiny, on carpeted nights
   That magic works through our frights;
Making fears but a buoyant gift,
   And the beauty of the night so deep.
Holding me, lulling thyself to sleep
   A slumber to remember, too keep.
Thy florid hair falling into my face;
   Thy locks flirting with my embrace.

To be the envisioned, the right
   To be thy illusion, thy envied night;
And be the one who shall not fail
   I shall crumble out of my wooden shell;
To throw myself into that golden mark
   That becomes thee, oft’ by fall’n sparks;
To come with boughs of joy, and laugh;
   To fulfill thee with all my love.

Thou art not the one I want to write about;
but it appears that I have no brighter choice.
The only one that seems to bear no fault;
and lives a life full of merriment and bliss.

And thy, thy name! So delicate as a summer laughter
With hands so imbued with clarity and brave power.
I believe thou art such an ingenious lover;
but frail as thou hath always been; weak and fragile
under thy harmonious cover.

And shall I be treading these paths, tomorrow noon;
whenst I'll come across a dainty flower by the lagoon.
Amongst those ripe cherries-there is one too like thee,
so mysterious and sometimes gazes awkwardly at me.

Thy young bud is that of rose and berry,
a symbol of thy soul so embraced by words and poetry.
Ah! And so deserving it is of graceful flattery;
as thou move along these paths, thy young heart shines
and gleams afar-just like the dribbling snow,
how childish, yet altogether refined and free.

Thy stare-o, thy stare, querida, is deep and anxiously unbending;
like those gracious arts and their prudential stone carving
or pools with swarms of red starfish so enchanting
as my little boat swims along feverishly, unnoticing.

And ah! Unaging as thou always art,
growth is but futile to thy slippery soul
With this world thou shalt never part,
and foreverness becomes thy frost-like hall.

Youthness of thine that shall never fade,
and handsome face that shall never wane.
O, how thy delicacy is to me like that cruel fate-
o my dearest, humble immortal man!

Timelessness shall then become our lasting key;
to a love sweeter and even more precious than destiny.
And live, live in utter happiness shall forever we,
as long as these muscles can breath, and as far as
these eyes can see.

Querida,
I'd wished I could hold you here
amidst the splendid songs of the twilight
and the humorous singing of the sky-larks
under the harmonious untouchable blue skies.
This afternoon I beheld thy sheepish movements
pure as the rainbows, and those sparks of levity
of thy salubrious, noble soul.
Querida,
I long to have you here in my bare arms
Thinking of you is marvellous;
your soul is of nothing but the beauteous.
Querida,
I did not seem agile today
I tired my senses
I lost my airs
My breaths in wreaths
of sour demons, their petulance none but
unbecoming, hostile, and drowsy,
but thou! Thou, Querida,
thou breathed again life in steady beats
just like the swords of the lingering sun
until my heart warmed, and bloomed as the plump spring cherries
rosy and windblown in a genial way:
thou art my soul, my hopes,
thou art the knight to my battle lights;
thou art the king to my dry sights;
thou art the owner of my dreams
thou art the loveliest love of my every day.

You drift away from each of us
Before you are sufficient;
We would long for you to live on,
We would not want you to leave.

You are too brief to understand
Way too voiceless to speak;
A threat to many who profess
A question that hearts raise.

You live too shortly in your way
With your flaws by the blue moon;
You are fast like a flowing river,
And with you is the eternal winter.

You are not a flawless toil
Incarnated in bones and soil;
You swarm the sins of my *****
The fire of my soul, and means.

You are bare as I’ll have my way
And yet you have none to say;
You are soundless, as I remember,
Shy and dominant as I recall.

And as though I have you in my veins
As my bare chest has reminded me;
As though I have no sins to close
As though I am so vacant as a rose.

And as though I am like a lavender,
I am never as stunning as a rose,
For the rose has threatened to ****,
For the rose has a bad will.

And as though the rose has a soul,
But with no age, with no cure
With no love to love me,
With the immortal love I desire.

And as though I want it to be,
As though I shan’t be jealous,
The rose and age have been zealous,
I am hurried by my time for thee.

And as though I want me to see,
That age is not cordial to me,
That age has but not my soul,
That age has given me my world.

As though I kept my fate in me,
As though I had it all alone,
As though it could ever last,
As though I could stay alive.

As though I kept my soul within me,
As though the moon could speak,
As though I could not feel worried,
As though I could still live.

As though I shall not die,
As though death shan’t cry,
As though I am idle to you,
As though I am too chaste to live.

As though poems cannot write,
As though I, the poet, shan’t tell,
As though words emit no light,
As though they shan’t wish me well.

As though all notions are mute,
As though no sound could speak.
As though all sights are gone,
As though jokes are not alone.

As though all notions are idle,
As though all poems are riddles,
As though our age is immortal,
As though our tongues shall last.

As though my age does not bleed,
And not blame all my sins on me,
My ends are not bleak but to meet,
Merry in a sense, troubling to be.

As though my age matters not,
I’ll live away my story short,
As though I am the poet of the day,
As though I am the sin of my words.

As though my age worries me not,
My passion shall let me free,
I and my verses shall wander not,
I and they are what we can be.

As though my age believes me not,
My stories ring but true to you,
I am the wise poet of honour,
Excite my songs and sing my hours.

As though my age stays beside me,
I shall not cheer but trust in me,
I cannot feel but I always see,
I cannot hear but feel at ease.

As though my love believes me not,
My heart is filled with loud cheer,
That in their own sense is aloof,
That in their sight is love.

As though my age shall last,
My countenance hast faith in me,
I am none that the world shall see,
The sole music of my naïve joy.

As though my age shall not fade,
As though I shall forever sing,
I shall cherish my everlasting sin,
I shall cherish what your poems mean.

As though my age shall not wane,
I shall cherish the eyes of storms,
Witness the benign shower of rain,
Feast on the innocent red night.

As though my age shall stay bright,
I shall strive to enjoy the light,
Bury myself deep in cold sunlight,
Watching the brilliant grass at night.

As though my age shall be here,
I shall excite the sage in me,
That a poet is I want to be,
That all shall last on a sunny day.

As though my age shall be with me,
I am the poet that one can be,
Stun the world with my tunes,
See the earth through the moon.

As though my age shall be near,
I shall choose but to live here,
I shan’t **** away nor move,
For a joy so soft that is a rose.

As though my age but hears,
I shall opt not to leave,
I shall still stay here aft’ long,
Playing back my old summer song.

As though my age shan’t falter,
I am the poetess that writs,
I have funny ears and wits,
I have a joke in my verse forever.

As though my age shall still live,
I am the poet that wants to hear,
Sings the tunes that are not present,
Reads the warm steps of the past.

As though my age shall triumph,
I’ll live and love inside my poems,
For this world is but an insulting drama,
An indulgent swoon of fake lovers.

As though my age shall remain,
None of such lives smells like rain,
That all that perish shall die again,
And many shall die of their own lust.

As though my age shall not swerve,
As though our lives are not curbed,
As though immortals are an excitement,
As though fate is an impediment.

As though my age is not tired,
As though my age is pure,
All I can think of is my nights,
None that I have seen is true.

As though my age is not wrinkled,
As though all is not lost in years,
As though all feet stay young,
As though skin stays fresh.

As though my age is bare,
As though aging is dead,
As though death shan't ring,
As though hearts shan't sing.

As though my age is idle,
As though my age is pure.
As though I could handle,
As though love is awake.

As though my age is here,
As though days shan’t pass,
As though my age shan’t die,
As though my age is love.

As though love is honest,
As though love is pure,
As though love does not deny,
As though love does not lie.

As though love is childish,
As though love is destiny,
As though love is festive,
As though love is poetry.

As though love is not age,
As though love stays alive,
As though love deeply feels,
As though love is not ill.

Somebody very sweet told me tonight:
"You are my foreign poetry. Sugar to my salty tongue. Candies to my bitter lungs. Blushes to my cold cheeks. A foreign lilac with her own ways and beauty. At first I was afraid to fall in love with you because you are a poet, and I am not. I was shy about my ordinary words, which are perhaps nothing to your compelling spells and admirable phrases. I like your choice of words, and I like your beauty. You smell like a foreign moon, from an unknown time and space, and yet your universe is the same as mine. You own the same fate as I do, as a human. And your memories are just too enthralling for an ordinary human like me to understand. You move with speed. You speak with tact. And your sincerity is even more ****** than you are. A sweet foreign poem I had never imagined trying to understand, especially with a wounded heart, that had been slit open by a thousand swords. You are too chaste and yet tempting to me, as a foreigner. And your foreign idioms, sometimes, just surprise me. And your poetic fervour. My nightmares are gone in your presence. My hands are not cold, and so my blood flows again. My heart thrills whenever I am about to see you, and yet I cannot bring myself to see you too much, because I am afraid I will crush you. You are like a fragile little rose to me. A lyrical song that shall never fade, but too fades on a certain day. I am too scared that this will end, just like the last (one) did. I do not want you to end. I do not want our story to end whatever befalls us. And so it is safest for us not to begin anything. Because I am afraid these beautiful things shall just rot and die away--like they usually do. I cannot write poems and yet you made me write one. If only I'd ever had dreams like you do; or if I could dream of anything at all, my dreams would be about you. Because you made me see, with your own poetic ways, what life means and the very being I am meant to be. But I am too far from you; I am with thee in sight and yet cannot reach thy heart. I am afraid such a precious little piece shall be broken when mine. So I shan't ever wish to break it. Yet one thing I shall hold thee to know; none has ever filled it like you have. You filled it with love when it cried. You fed it and lived with it and cherished it. You helped it up when it fell. And none of these world's beauties are like yours; warm and shiny and tantalising and maliciously foreign. Ah, nothing like I've ever seen before. Not one, Estefannia."

Kozarev, thou remindeth me of the other one: thy innocence is just as such authenticity that never decays! Thy simplicity, yes-and oft'times omens of languidity, art indeed genuine! O, thy purity which bears no sin! Twists of daring passion that art so listed in thy eyes-brief and witty, yet calming but never at rest. My another, that disheartening past love back then, in the course of many a year ago-is now but a tiny flickering shadow of battered raindrops that I canst only sing of. Like a handful of worn-out ashes, his fatigue is of no more profoundness to me, and shalt it never findeth any further way to my heart. How he turned me-and my confident passion, down! Abrupt kisses as we had, and ah!-light strokes on my hair-all wert terrific, yes, t'ey wert, in th' first place-but suddenly over! But thou, indolent as thou art-docile and hysterical in some lyrical ways-thy soul is but the forest of an unknown world; what a jolly secret cave! Bathed in crisp mystery, engulfed in shallow pathos; a lump of love, young torpor-yet haunting and irredeemable felicity. Untouched as thou art, like a wordless, newborn infant-whose feet art contently groping in soulless darkness-until thou findeth the smiling light itself! O, be it me-be it me, my dear! Thou art but to me a glimpse of wrathless haze; rolling and dancing about as thou always art-in'a sheepish, childish maze.

How can I love thee,
if thou art my enemy?
How can I love thee,
if thou art my agony?

I fancy my love is futile
I's lost in thee in one blink of the eye
'Twas a dull day with a tempest worried and grey
No charm as splendid as the salubrious May
Vanished worlds are real to me today

How can I love thee,
whilst I shine but wither in despair?
How can I love thee,
when the mist replaces the air?

O, I can't see thy face, o no!
I'm trapped in this ghastly limbo
I look askance at the angered sky
My voice is coarse my heart's empty
My songs are shy my chest is dry

How can I love thee,
with this guileless but wondrous intimation!
Heavens are our first but final destination
where love is a gift and a token of affection

How ill I am!
Wronged by my own love and longing
Whilst the grass is green and
the stars are twinkling
This bitter cold is my weeping

O promises! Why did thou fail my soul?
Thy tongue does but smell of foul
Kneel by me, I entreat!
You little lie that could only cheat!

O resentment! How sleepy is thy mind!
Now I the master demand, awake!
Yet show thy patience, relieve me from behind
Forget me not, for the world's sake!

O laughter! In thy severe idiocy
Rise from thy unsmart repose!
Retrace thy steps, enslave thy feet!
Bid yourself go; and find but a better, brighter rose!

Slaughter yourself, o infatuation,
I thy master insist, decay!
Set my grim heart in awesome daylight
Send my frosted feet onto liberation!

Flowers of the devil, flowers of laudation.
I believe in praise and its own strange admiration.
Yet my roams are no longer of importance;
but heave my senses from assault,
kiss, kiss myself away!

Still, my heart tastes like ******,
in its misery and pangs of silenced desperation.
O words, hinder me from the joy of anger,
defeat my thirst for blinded and serene assassination!

The gentle cry, the loss of hope
rings all over but shields us in vain:
As pale as the yellow falling rain to
heal my wounds, cure my lonely pain
This mounds of hate should remain;
Until my stern heart melts to love again.

I am broken, I am broken inside,
My soul swallowed by the Nordic sea.
When am I but to see the Northern Light;
Their lights are ahead, above me.

Who says I shan’t sing but shall here,
For singing and hearing are inseparable,
Like the lonely souls of aging and youth;
Whose ends stand irreplaceable.

Who says I shan’t read but shall hear,
For reading and hearing are the same,
And so are the poesy and prose within me;
They all see through me alike.

And who says love is of insipid youth,
Had I given thought to your love;
Whose songs make me but hungry again,
Suspicious about me, unlike the rose.

And who says love is a sordid poem,
A phony line any may have writ,
And who one like me has in her room,
One that has not much wit.

And who says ‘tis not my Helsinki,
Within too much of a single beat,
None is faster than my heartbeat,
To love once more, like young poetry.

And who says old Helsinki shan’t love,
He has had much to understand,
That love is in his hold beyond reason,
A reason I shall see again.

And who says my Helsinki shan’t live,
Within too much of a long sigh,
Pampered by the bread of cold nights,
Asleep by the cheerful Northern Lights.

And who says my Helsinki is cold,
All the evil within their bold,
Too much have I hated and cried,
Too much have I seen the worst night.

And who says my Helsinki is bare,
I like the cool and safe midnight air,
With the green and silver trees there,
I have no time to waste its fair.

And who says my Helsinki is there,
With no love nor tune to love me,
All poems are a secret flute,
An eternity that waives sick truths.

And who says my Helsinki is sick,
Like a word chain tame and meek,
That I shall kiss his lucky cheeks,
That I shall seek to love.

And who says my Helsinki is red,
The twisting end that shan’t be met,
Whose winter smells like a summer lily,
Whose lavender blooms like a rose.

And who says my Helsinki has sinned,
As a lover I shan’t have seen,
Who might you be as a true lover,
Who might you be to love me, better.

And who says my Helsinki is late,
All was too young to receive their fate;
A bud raised in the summery hate,
Too small to be, naughty to the moon.

And who says my Helsinki is old,
There was a reason to behold,
That once appeared and spread again,
That once loved, and demanded love.

And who says my Helsinki is wild,
To climb the cooling clouds too high,
Bewitching youth on a Northern night,
Funny and bewildering like a poem.

And who says my Helsinki befalls,
We all hate longed for fields of fall
And the invigorating rain’s song,
After a fairy heat, for long.

And who says my Helsinki loves worse,
None is worldly in the wind of words,
Nor shall any witness the fall of me,
The fading of youth, its sallow skin.

And who says my Helsinki shan’t read,
With a simmering false that cheats,
Who says such immature threat,
That rains raise in their odd feeling.

And who says my Helsinki shan’t say,
All is rain in the Nordic West,
And the love prisons who want to see,
Charms those who linger to stay.

And who says my Helsinki shall fail,
None is so lithe, nor a fallen ill,
None has its least of temperaments,
None can adjust, all shall leave.

And who says my Helsinki is dust,
For dirt and debt cometh from the sun,
Such like desire—and the worst of lust,
With a love come undone.

And who says my Helsinki is free,
Whose soul is not bound to be,
Whose charm is thin that all see,
Whose love is vague.

And who says my Helsinki is a dream,
But reality truer than its own self,
That such words of his are precious,
A letter to read, a canto to my love.

And who says my Helsinki is a verse,
But a story that has heard the worse,
And who shall dream of which and the sea,
Who shall dare to mention the sun.

And who says my Helsinki shall age,
But a wise forgiver to all sins,
That age itself seems foreign,
That love itself matures, hence.

And who says my Helsinki loved once,
But not a voice to love again;
That love itself seems to listen
That misery itself shall laugh.

And who says my Helsinki is trodden,
And who says within which is disgrace,
A passion for fire is who is evil,
Ill as daylight, and tormenting.

And who says my Helsinki but echoes,
Within such a world of failed heroes,
I have but to me my deranged throes,
Which love to lay low about me.

And who says my Helsinki shan’t reside,
Ever since, have not I held my sight
And raised again to the Sun Kingdom,
I might choose not to retell my poem.

And who says my Helsinki is pride,
This heart is too open and too wide,
But I shan’t live again on the English side,
Nor ponder the Yorkshire suburbs.

And who says my Helsinki shan’t tell,
Ever since, have I hated farewells
That longed to put their hands in my arms,
Lulled to the night by my poet’s charms.

And who says my Helsinki is a curse,
Since then, have I hated bad wills
As though I myself would not again feel;
Feel a starry night still to far away.

And who says my Helsinki is not me,
With all my tunes too rich for a single verse
That shall excite nor tune to me not,
You are not much dearer, but worse.

And who says my Helsinki shan’t dream?
For I writ much only of a dreamer,
A dreamer that bathes in solitude,
A dreamer that warms, one that charms.

And who says my Helsinki shan’t stay,
The world has grown out of its way,
That the evil sun has rinsed itself again
And shall slowly **** the cold days.

And who says my Helsinki is dry,
That in his life that lies in the sky
No warmth shall come to life,
With a heart that shall love us not.

And who says my Helsinki is shy,
Rules but its own magical, sour song,
Basked in its reserved poetic triumph;
Not much of its own soul, not the poem.

And who says my Helsinki is far,
Farthest from the poet’s closed heart,
And shall be awkward, should it remain;
Their hearts shan’t live to sicken again.

And who says my Helsinki isn’t fair,
With none but a wrong air to feel,
Not a heart, nor a hand that feels not
Life and love are dead in the cold.

And who says my Helsinki loves autumn,
That all is beautiful is left in town,
And they may die of ugliness,
That all wander on their own.

And who says my Helsinki loves winter,
With northern lights icy-clear,
With three rainbows drawing near,
With white and fierce snowstorms.

And who says my Helsinki loves summer,
With a love not from the heart,
With a word not from the poet,
With a spear that can hurt.

And who says my Helsinki loves spring,
Who shall be there but the poet to sing,
Like the chained melodies in her words,
The Christmas tales in her sweet worlds.

And who says my Helsinki but myself,
The paint and poet together at once,
That a word is so bright as its colour,
That the colour makes its hours light.

And who says my Helsinki but my heart,
Who shall open it a door to cold nights,
To the heart that yearns for cold rains,
To the soul that misses the clouds.

And who says my Helsinki but my art,
Who shall make it a comfort today,
For the words that are patiently passed,
For a promise that is never wrong.

And who says my Helsinki but my soul,
Who shall present it with joy tonight,
Who shall bring it life and thought,
Who shall cheer it, who shall love it.

And who says my Helsinki but my blood,
Who shall amend its present sight,
Who shall condemn all that’s amiss,
Who shall wed it, shall give it bliss.

And who says my Helsinki but my might,
And sends to me another silent poet,
The son of cold, the offspring of dark,
The child of solitude that embraces me.

And who says my Helsinki but my sight,
That all afternoons are a night triumph,
That all that is sick becomes my poem,
That all long nights become my lullaby.

And who says my Helsinki but my sigh,
That I can love on moaning nights,
That I am the chaste that shan’t hide;
To come and again, in an immortal light.

And who says my Helsinki but my light,
That I can stay versed in such frights,
That I shall stay stern and not wobble,
That I shall stay here, and adore still.

And who says my Helsinki, but my love,
All in my verses are a blessing,
All blessed be, an innocent King,
All a cold dark, a sweet morning.

How th' very mention of my lover's name, still makes me even rock with helpless vigor! And red doth I become, painstakingly red, until t'ey hath no more choice but swivel around until everything, everything of t'eir collective bodies is but a giddy blur in th' young-capacious distance; and rapidly doth I slosh forward afterwards; like a blade of remorse being sadistically hurtled onto th' chest of a savage, lying clairvoyant. But killeth him it not; ah! Just like a maturing star-guess, my ardent reader-how it flashes-piercingly, and flows about-doubtfully, with a swamp of questions in its godly eyes, before stabbing itself calmly, into th' realm of holiness on its side! I am t'at blade, yes-t'at blameless blade-guileless and chaste just as its courteous rim hath never hurt any life. And I indeed am, t'day! Wordlessly doth they bound away, o, until t'eir lithe figures art but th' mercenary of a trifling shadow of consecutive breaths on a faraway ground, meanwhile storm I, plausibly, into th' nearest ajar door! What a gouty, sickly constitution doth it bear on its wooden shoulder; clogged by dewy sobs it wasth-with droplets of girlish rains giggling to and churning about its hinges! How cruel indeed, t'is oddity is! But canst no-thing refraineth me onceth more from smiling, as now I doth know th' very luck of mine-and its returned feelings, today! Perhaps, just perhaps, he might have simply been too bashful to utter any due phrases. Still, grinning quietly in my new knowledge of womanly joy, ah! Leap I upwards and into my plump room, to supersede my obstinate foggy layers-prior to my other subsequent journey-oh, on discovering my truthful lover in his current runabouts, and accomplishing my destiny-by surrendering my crown into his charms, and truest affection, finally! Shaking all over with passion and speedy heartbeat, petulant bursts of laughter doth I t'en utter, and danced about as I doth-majestically, until my heart is thoroughly enveloped, and sanguinely bathed, in its long-lost, principally sought-after pools of happiness. Laugh doth I, in incurable fascination! As t'is day hath just been too exquisite-yes, too frantically ecstatic, reader, to be inanely waned away-without any poem; ah, especially with all th' virile, ye' soothing, humming of th' boyish songbird! And shrink I again into acute-o, even unhealable felicity, upon harking to th' panoramic-and harmonious scene t'at's all enlight'ening th' tender ambiance of affection, out t'ere. What a perfect concord as it is, with t'is inevitably dear-and o, invincible loving feeling of mine. Oh, my Kozarev, I have only words to play with!

Behind th' bushes I caught thee
As thou drove forth straightly by me.
Wearing a grey suit and dark tie
Thou smiled as thou waved us goodbye.

I was trudging along one friend
When outright it began to rain.
Flipping about th' green bushes;
Darting afore 'twixt blue masses.

Thou wert as keen as usual
Busy as t'ose spinning laurels
With leaves so prone as nearby wood
Whose fruits real jolly fine and good.

Thou wert screened by yon murky glass
Whilst rain soaked us wet by th' grass.
Scents of firm tulips ***** my breath;
filling plump bleak air with warm death.

Among t'ose hills wert swarms of bees
and roaming flies behind whose courts.
Swans t'at wandered by wert like thee;
comely but shy in thy owneth worlds.

Lilies of life, roses of death
Be blessings to thy youth and health
And soft like moonlit lavender;
Turn to me alone and leave her.

But my poems wert within thy mind;
and my songs thy red-lipped sonnet.
Everything's good; everything's fine;
Read my words tonite 'fore thy bed.

And as thou sat breathless and still
Like t'is trifling rain made us feel;
Guilty as itself and fake clouds
For show'ring our naive earth out loud.

Our destiny was seen again;
Like how some dand'llions shalt remain
When t'is cold-like spring's dragged away
As summer befriendeth early May.

Webs of young hope gasped in thy eyes;
clear as had never been disguised.
Not as vague but wert surely thine,
blissful and sweet; as which of mine.

Night, now so low upon earth
Fake all the flashes of the dying sun.
All my care for you has ended
And so my deep wooing is done.
This one is to be a gloomy night
Until you have your sins atoned
And confessed it was all not right
Before timelessness dies
and our whole life is gone.

Night, now so dark and peaceful
But is your soul holy again to love?
Leave me not smiling and hopeful
If not for me you have ever fought.
Just leave me here; waning and dying
And frequent her; as I scream in dismay.
Forsake me more by your fond lying
And live your life as'f no more's today.

Love, how could you become so bitter?
And just like the winds burning outside;
your own delights you have murdered
and for chastity you shall never fight.
As I walked home through this fiery night
Your thunder pressed my spirit down
And as I had rushed to catch daylight
You spurned my love and left me at dawn.

Love, have you now really gone?
Why have you not given me my turn
And wait until this misery is blown?
Your deceit but made my heart churn
And your falsehood made me want to run
into the arms of our exotic heavens
To marry my soul to the nocturnal sun;
and relieve this twist of sheer burdens.

O love, why finished you not our sonnets-
and instantly replaced its haunting melody
With tones of hatred and spite and regrets.
Such ignoble, yet faithful means of cruelty!
Ah! And why did you but think that our story
Is perhaps a genteel and surreal parody?
Your soul has turned indeed somewhat vicious
In which I can find sadly none of glory;
for detest I do such happiness perilous
and greatness built in whirls of ignominy.

And your rivers; rivers of epic poetry,
have now gone mad and burnt themselves.
But feel you will; neither sadness nor sorry,
as though have you not human cells.
You are grounded within your age;
and your soul bare as a statue.
You are still but dangerous as rage;
like you have only vice and no virtue.

I might too be seen as truthfully blessed
That I have fled my whole self from you.
I was no more than your autumn jest;
whilst you still thought you were darkly true.
Yes! Like a proud, but evil sailor at night
You will one day wander beside my sea
And turn all its gullible colours into fright;
before you creep forth up and **** me.

And further I'll fight for you not,
as in him I've found my victory.
Ah! But why this courage is still bold;
though you are no more of my story.
Breathe, breathe, as 'tis all for him
That grand singing just might seem
And other woven threads of this poesy
I bore and sewed under the tree.

Ah! I will return you to the icy night
Before I start my dreamy journey.
So I know you'll fade within my sight
but appear again wherein; like a ghost lady.

That now have I finally said goodbye,
turn around and bring not one face shy.
Fret not over your past mistakes;
Face with patience what future takes.

And gladly welcome your returns,
for yon good deeds had you once done.
But share your due blessings in turns,
show your dear kindness and not scorn.

But I'll stand beside the bushes,
with my newborn hope by the lakes.
Lost in his loving eyelashes,
by the grandest tale love can make.

Thou art th' love, that danceth through my veins
Thou art th' charm, that befriendeth my dreams
Thou art th' heart, that consoleth my pains-
'midst those torrents of greedy stains
and those wakeful, shattering rains.

Thou art th' walls, that bear my soul
The wondrous cells-within my arms, legs, and lungs.
Thou art th' bushes of my nature;
thy redness dark, but plain and pure!

Thou art th' gusts to my river;
that layeth awake in its daydreaming.
Thou releaseth it from its wan longing!
By thy fast speed, like a bird's wing!
Thou blusheth my cheeks and giveth me warmth;
but thou turneth mad at every harm!
Yet as I healeth thy bruise is gone;
thou greeteth my clouds, and praiseth my sun.

Thou art th' gold sands, to my pearls-
which free 'em from any hassles!
Thou bringst me strength in my rambles-
in my green lake, thou'rt brown ripples!
Thou remindeth me in solemn peace-
that lips areth for a sincere kiss!
Thou blest my life and happiness-
thou feedeth friendship and forgiveness!

Thou burst violent at my temper-
and sink my foul into disgrace!
In thy mind love is sweet laughter-
with no floods of cry or blighting haze.

Thou cheereth my joy and lifteth it up,
thou keepeth flowing and never stopeth!
Thou relieveth me on thy blessed shore-and aye!
Thou endeth my drought like no-'ne before.

I ask the stars, but they're weeping
I beg the moon, but he's sleeping
It's only me who's still writing
In my head my words are giggling

There are hundreds of beauty
But I'm only longing for thee
My heart yearns for him no longer
'Cos thou art my truest lover

If thou could be here for one night
Until the day is again bright
My innocent soul, mirth, and sky
As though there would be no more cry

If only thou'd be here with me
And dance 'till spring flash's into view
Lost in the prudent morning dew
And the holy song of the bee

If only there's a second chance
Where I could be more than thy friend
Let me dream in thy pristine charms
Let me be embraced in thy arms

At this very night I but pray
That thou would come to me one day
Perhaps in that summer of May
When bushes bloom and flowers stay

Thy gaze my festive solitude
Thy kiss blesses my dear prelude
Thy promises my windblown flute;
Thy love'th my Eolian lute.

There is none like my Immortal,
A picture to my legit verse,
That I want to claim youth again,
But then I have lost you.

There is none like my Immortal,
Whose piercing eyes make him younger,
As though they are a youth of their own,
As though they still have my love.

There is none like my Immortal,
Whose smile brings white snow,
Whose chest fuels me,
Whose lips are my love.

There is none like my Immortal,
There is none as weird and charming,
That my brief love sounds too awkward
That it would not stay for long.

There is none like my Immortal,
Whose playful mind stays through the night
Bearing soft torch lights within it;
And in him is the soul of a rose.

There is none like my Immortal,
Who once grasped and gasped with me,
With whirling air so mindful to see,
Who awakened my merit of love.

There is none like my Immortal,
Whose mirth enabled me to see,
Excite the verses of my own poetry,
Incite every vein of my love.

There is none like my Immortal,
Who stood by my everlasting rain,
That all was but a filth of joy,
A naïve run across the downpour.

There is none like my Immortal,
Rich in his own myriad of love,
And the thoughtful kiss he has,
None has the warmth of his arms.

There is none like my Immortal,
Who jumps and plays under the sun,
All is fun for the whole world to see,
All is love to him, love is free.

There is none like my Immortal,
None has his sweet breath, and see—
None has his verse here with me,
None has his excited bold voice.

There is none like my Immortal,
None has his weight and air of truth,
That all that is not love shall love,  
That all that was sunlight is rain.

There is none like my Immortal,
Who loved me in snow and rain,
Who startled and awoke me again,
Who reminded me of my love.

There is none like my Immortal,
None resembles his mythical words,
That I forgot all our mortal homes
Thinking of his sweet love alone.

There is none like my Immortal,
Whose cheeks have archaic colours,
Whose bashful smile is but as sweet
My heart’s darling, my living love.

There is none like my Immortal,
Whose presence was a true mirage,
And who can see that cordial visage
But with the heat of a surging love?

There is none like my Immortal,
Whom I love presently and sweetly,
Whose sins I shall not come to resent,
Whose sordid love is ever present.

There is none like my Immortal,
Whom I love deeply and severely,
Who saluted me with a smile so shy
With a feeling so vivid and high.

There is none like my Immortal,
Who was so mild as morning dew,
Who greeted the quiet snow wildly
With a love so thoughtful and true.

There is none like my Immortal,
Whom I love calmly and serenely
Who charmed me with such faithful songs
With promises so fervent and long.

There is none like my Immortal,
Who enthralled me by the night shade,
Who stunned me as handsome and fair,
Who shook my love at first sight.

There is none like my Immortal,
The tunes of love to my foreign ode,
The loving feeling that might explode,
The living life that shan’t fade,

There is none like my Immortal,
A loving soul to my being,
A frenetic chain to my mind,
A delight to my unseen rain.

There is none like my Immortal,
A playful gift to my foreign days,
A darling light to my gloom,
An inspired joy to my poem.

There is none like my Immortal,
The ragged charm that charmed me,
The sweet heart that tempted me,
The owner of my love.

There is none like my Immortal,
The stellar voice in the winds,
The thought that shan’t fade,
The ****** love of my flesh.

There is none like my Immortal,
The splendid son of the sun,
The prince from the Slavic land,
The promise of the moon.

There is none like my Immortal,
The raw sight of the night,
The shade in warm sunlight,
The poem that sounded right.

There is none like my Immortal,
Who made my heart beat fast,
Whom I dreamed of once,
Whom I dream of once more.

There is none like my Immortal,
The king of all excited verses,
All that exceeds the Nordic youth,
All that surrounds my Eastern love.

There is none like my Immortal,
More handsome than fall foliage,
More youthful than all age,
Brighter than the Northern Light.

There is none like my Immortal,
Cleverer than chaste winters,
Smart on the rough days,
The right to my wrong.

There is none like my Immortal,
A smile on my cheek,
The star to the moon,
The snow to his own sun.

There is none like my Immortal,
Alive on such happy days,
A reason that I believed,
A love that was mine.

There is none like my Immortal,
Watery like wintry snow,
Shiny as its glow,
Brighter than tomorrow.

There is none like my Immortal,
Roseate in his smile,
Faint in his grief,
Melancholy in his words.

There is none like my Immortal,
Flushed were his cheeks,
Blood in his veins,
Mild in his songs.

There is none like my Immortal,
Confused in his own wit,
Sweet in his dreams,
Light in his silence.

There is none like my Immortal,
Godly in his godlessness,
Important in his universe,
Precious in my verses.

There is none like my Immortal,
Whiter than the last snowstorms,
Sharper than their shadows,
Freer than their spirits.

There is none like my Immortal,
Glorious in his mad ways,
Charming through the night and days,
Subtle in his silent thoughts.

There is none like my Immortal,
Whose poetry entertains mine,
And who shall say about his narrative,
But that such melodies shall live?

There is none like my Immortal,
Who celebrates his youth at once,
Whom my heart loves still,
Who puts my frazzled mind at ease.

There is none like my Immortal,
Whom I love beyond my will,
Whom I love in health and ill,
Whom I love dearly still.

There is none like my Immortal,
Whose night is a day of love,
Whose smell endorses my breath,
Whose absence is a living death.

There is none like my Immortal,
Whose words are a delicate touch,
Whose kiss wanted to lie on me,
Whose lateness would still charm me.

There is none like my Immortal,
There is none but an Immortal dream,
Where all is plain and not so sweet
As all that I tasted before.

There is none like my Immortal,
There is none but a sordid dream
That none of our beings shall be a poet
In a garden so sour and forgotten.

There is none like my Immortal,
That all reasons are menial and dry
That to bewitch my Immortal cry;
But my Immortal shall be here not.

There is none like my Immortal,
That there shall be no cheer as sweet
That all shall have none to love me,
As I am in love with my amber self.

There is none like my Immortal,
That there is no love so blessed
For it keeps too much unrest,
As I am singing for my poor love.

There is none like my Immortal,
That there is no love to witness,
There is no winter to wake for,
There is no tale to live like before.

He was as pale as someone dead;
He stayed silent and showed no breath.
He moved not as our eyes met;
He looked startled, tired, and mad.

He was like a dead child unborn;
A child of night; yet a corpse of morn.
He turns all wild after sunset;
He rarely sleeps; nor lies in bed.

How could I fall in love with him?
For he is mute as how death seems;
He is mean and emotionless;
He is inhuman and soulless.

For he has done lots of mischief;
He knows not even why to live.
Though his face looks bare and naive;
And his red mouth, voiceless and stiff.

For he has not tears nor feelings;
Smiles not at kindness nor givings.
He is deceitful and selfish;
He is boastful and coquettish.

For he may have had 'nother girl;
With whom he sings and dances and swirls.
She must be than me prettier;
And thus fairer, and lovelier.

Weird for I love him even more;
More than I praise this earth's dear Lord.
He owns all the might of my soul;
He fills my charm; he makes my whole.

Thou, my Helsinki, art but none like the whimsical England;
A sultry bruise in its own pretense and fear of foreign lands,
A sordid gate through which oneself ought not to fall,
With curses and dominions of souls awaiting by the wall,
And for we hath none there to live on and feed and exist,
That I had but to restrain my ripe taste for exotic bliss;
I could put neither my mind nor countenance at rest,
All fed from wealth, and churned an insatiable hole in my chest.
My heart is lost, and with a love gone for too long,
Misery has become too good, and cries are far prolonged.

My Helsinki is too sweet, unlike the ****** sun;
Perplexed only by my art at first, but not my literature.
With you, Aurora, all ice shall become ardent and lighter:
My sins shall fade as they penetrate the laden fun,
And the griefs that wash away shall quench the fire,
Returning to me my young snowstorms, and lyre.
I shall long to stride across thy satin-like blue mud,
Keeping my peace at pace within a salubrious heart.
All is thoughtful, my Helsinki; all is wicked but pure inside me,
That I can but love again when fate is too close to see.

Thou hath encased in a little lily my English violet,
A purple evil living on within a shiny swollen pocket.
In a place that is so laden with the promise of death,
Let’s forget our fallen fate and dream without breath.
Let us mock the rolling stars in the sour, unkempt sky;
To believe that England is not alive, that ‘tis but a lie.
To see that England is but a slithering little mire anew,
And a mire among beautiful mud like thee, wise and true.
To hear, or but to see that I can knit a new story,
That thou hath always had conscious faith in me.

Thou, who hath brought the sight of joyful days,
And the promise of such hath entertained me;
The vanished boughs of England once seemed real today,
Which my eyes found too unmerited for us to see.
All the squandered fate to me shall mean nothing,
Nor their grace shall carry the luck of the unknown.
All the wasted feasts that were once everything,
The past hath gone, leaving no absurd reality alone.
To me then, all of my England is oblivious and utterly dead;
That with a salubrious sweat, I shall send it into thorough death.

That the mind alone, of the poet, never loses its imagination,
That the fits it celebrates shall keep the delirium eternally;
That with delight shall celebrate poetry’s reincarnation,
In a daring love and human thought seen at the edge of Helsinki.
Where but did England’s spirit forsake me, every now and then,
I was beneath no love and the care of apparition friends,
That know not how to penetrate a crowd beneath its cheers,
Nor console the sick right in their hearts, all was too weird.
I was dwarfed in those cold whereabouts, I was unloved,
That even my favourite winter seemed too harsh to laugh.

You will tear me away from such despair, I believe;
Grab my hand, and lull it to sleep by the wealth it sees,
Make it rejoice at the fortune for which it writhes—and lives,
Make it love the days for whom it was devotedly decreed.
Ah! For just this once, I shall deliver my congratulations to you;
You have been the cold flower that spoke so clearly and true.
You are the fond memory that woke me from the steep sleep,
The depth that surrounded me in my virile anger, and weeps.
You are the quiet splendour that my mind boasts of, and conceives,
You are the trebled grace that my spirit strives to believe.

You are the one with the trident on the throne;
And you recall all my salubrious and tired moves,
That you say my love is sour yet fresh as warm vinegar,
That my love is a warmth to thee, much less thy solitude,
A solitude that hath been left clueless at its heart,
A solitude so magnanimous and cheerful like a flute.
You are the one who shall consecrate my love,
Make it as firm as the benign loving throne,
You are the one who shall feed from their naught,
Cheer, pamper me with a feat so real to me alone.

You are the one whose fiery fate shall contain me;
That rejects the bad and keeps to me eternally,
No further mist of love hath drifted by me, and all hath been vain,
Thou shalt but catch the one for me; and the colds that remain,
I shall be the first to crave for the form of my love, my man,
I shall be the first to witness the emergence of rain.
I shall be the first to look behind the heatless statue,
To see first the form of a man so definite and true.
Thou shalt me grant a life and solitude far better, not worse,
Thou shalt idolise me as thy special Goddess of words.

And guess who shall but take hold of my pleasurable arms,
The night’s chamber hath lost its insatiable moans, and warmths;
Long since, they all melted down on an antagonistic sunny day,
Riveting as it was, lethal in too many narcissistic ways.
Ever since, they all never came back in any lifelike form,
They are haunting each other in their own abysmal dreams.
That is, nonetheless, just how it should still be,
To be the charmed poet I am, to fathom the world as I do.
That too, my love, is how my poetry shall ever want me,
That a love, as I did know, shall only ever come from you.

Hail! Hail! I feel so newfound and beautifully charmed and true,
Thy wind hath tossed me about like a pink-cheeked village child,
There is no spirit with freshness and joy, indeed, like you,
You gleam like a star, even on the summer moors so wild.
Everyone lives—the idea England seldom wants to confess,
Everyone lives on our art, for everyone and art are at their best.
And guess who is to swim into the heartless, shadowed sea,
For all is not cold and merely awake in our imagination.
The seas, which stir to life on the breaths of a sunny day,
Vitriolic attempts they make, much less their thankless ways.

Hail! Hail! I feel my imagination is about to be restored;
That all wrinkles and pains and worries shall but fade,
I shall again sail to the autumn breezes and daylight cold—
Facing my auburn destiny that ne’er comes too late.
Ah, Helsinki, whose hundreds of Christmas dusts shall overwhelm me,
Open my heart in a fun satire, full of delightful joy.
I seek to celebrate the clear day in thy ice of victory;
A beauty the sun shan’t thaw nor lay nor destroy,
Ah, Helsinki, so beautiful are thy majesty and cordial rains,
A pyre of stars by agreeable mountains, and dramatic friends.

Hail! Hail! My Helsinki is melancholy from what I hath seen,
It appreciates much the work of heaven in worried poetry,
That all solitude is passionately brewed, and born again
Within the real magnitude of love and festive sanctity.
My heart was too young and frivolous to follow the tender nature;
To gain what poetry truly was, nor share its sensible culture,
That once a call of tempt sloshed flippantly over me;
I became corrupt and unable to see the light in thee.
That I was wrong, I was too lighthearted to be wrong;
Bring me back my art—wash me with your newborn love, my Helsinki.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
A past t'at is mine, a poem t'at's gone;
A censured love impaired and sourly torn;
A carving of my soul, of my early years;
A sonata and melody t'at hath passed by;

Estefannia, Estefannia;
A drama t'at canst never lie;
Even in illness and dark hysteria;
Thou breathe and liveth on inside of me;
Thou forgivest and forgetest me every single day;

Estefannia, Estefannia;
Our stories are one and so is our poetry;
Whenst I writest, and so wilt thou;
Thou art part of me, a twin to my flesh;
Thou gigglest and wakest me up to a morning dew.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
A poet like me now and in th' past;
T'ese memories of thine shalt ever last;
Like twists of fate t'at shalt ne'er halt;
Like a feeling t'at shalt stay e'erlasting.

I combeth thy hair and feelest thy lips;
I touchest thy skin and walketh by thy feet;
My past is one, and too is thine;
Just like thou owneth half of me and of mine;

I liveth and breatheth by thy soul in me;
I hath my veins wherein floweth thy blood;
I and thou shalt ne'er be apart;
Thou art with me, in flesh and in my heart.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
A poet of life and love and hatred;
A seer into wintry and sunny days;
A speaker t'at ne'er be portrayed;
A lonely soul at night and in broad daylight.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
A mystery lover one hath yet not found;
A fine artist shattered by her grounds;
A midnight and morning and afternoon poet;
A wanderer cursed for even her own good;

Estefannia, Estefannia;
One betrayed by her own gown;
Detested by night and its hazel dystopia;
For all sirs wanteth her t' be alone;
To die in her weeps and moronic hysteria.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
Still a lily blooming in yon rotten air;
With cheeks too balmy and sickly and fair;
Ah, so w'ere is love, w'ere might t'is love be?
Might t'ere be not one love for she?

Estefannia, Estefannia;
Alone in her dreamy gardenia;
Longing for love and admission;
In a ruptured world and academia;
Within a dry, and sour dream of oblivion.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
Clever in her poems and fantasies;
Witty in her charms and parodies;
Ah, but such a soul is often forgotten;
T'ey wantest her to fade and be gone in seconds.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
Ah, what a despised, poor honest soul;
Tangled in a planet filled with filth and foul;
A name t'at a gent shalt ne'er call;
A soul t'at one e'er seeks to fall;

Estefannia, Estefannia;
A soul a gent shan't bot'er to remember;
A love a prince destroys, and swaps, and shatters;
A patience ****** into many calls and delays;
A poem t'at finally hath no more to tell of and say.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
A poet with such abandoned peace of mind;
A dame uncloaked in storms and pouring rain;
A lover whose poems t'ey wishest to slaughter;
A diligent soul every gent longest to ******.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
To whom life hath become too pitiful;
To whom such worlds hath been greatly sinful;
Who seeks a love t'at not even exists;
Who is mocked and smothered by such beasts.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
Whose labyrinth of love is lost somewhere;
But whose patience sounds sweeter and more beautiful;
Perhaps th' right time's to come, and thou'lt see an heir;
A young poet both legitimate and thoughtful;

Estefannia, Estefannia;
Within thy heartbeat recall my whisper;
Amongst the suns' rage and maleficent thunder;
But whenst love becomest two-faced and atrocious;
Thou art still a laugh t'at stays with me;

Estefannia, Estefannia;
For love is hateful, it is unfair;
For love ne'er smiles, nor shalt it care;
For thou art too pristine for its world and itself;
For thou art as pure and prone as pearls.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
Perhaps fate shall unburden thee of what thou beareth;
And relieve thee of thy worried breath;
Ah, Estefannia, love shalt be a sign to thee tomorrow;
I hope it shalt be raining and see some snow.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
Almighty is awake t'ere, and listening;
His verses are clear through such birds singing;
Singing and gliding and singing and gliding through th' suns;
Lurking by th' clouds and t'eir shivery Friday afternoon.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
For thee a love is riding through th' air;
A love carried by a magnificent persona;
T'at shalt emerge once thou finishest thy painting;
And hovering again through thy writing.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
Let's now see night and its fatamorgana;
O'r past poets art all t'ere, watching and guiding thee;
So let not t'is love make thee fear;
For 'tis to arrive whenst thou may not hear.

Estefannia, Estefannia.
One shadow and one fear,
One laughter and one tear.
And t'ere is no mimicry in th' sky, my dear,
For all is one past, a past we canst no more hear.

Estefannia, Estefannia
Spells blew through thy fingers,
Just like t'ese archaic written words.
Like hasty clouds t'at run not off water,
Thou wert once trapped, within t'ese sullen words.

Estefannia, Estefannia
A song of thy voice t'at rings in my ears;
But a song of love, of slumbering vice and hate.
Ah, Estefannia, I am thy soul and still here;
For life is not yet over, and turning back is not late.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
Write all again tomorrow and after;
For poems and thou shalt e'er be together;
For love is t'ere, as thou shalt still seek;
As a breeze t'at flows, whilst it cannot speak.

Who art thou, who art thou, oh-who art thou?
With eyes as shiny and like seas blue,
and glittering smiles so deep and true.
Thy voice as flawless as the walls,
but sleek and charming as rainfalls.
With skin as bright and slender pearls,
and lips as sensuous as mortal worlds.
And with thy golden hair thou art pure and white
as thou lay t'ere tranquilly by my side.
Ah, touch and rub my hand against thine,
but all th' way keep me still in thy mind.
Wake my soul and heal its coldness,
but fill it with more loving tenderness!
Just like th' youthful soul of an old painting,
and th' playful pages of some crusted writing.
Or like th' old door and its generous windowsill,
capture my heart and send all my spines to shrills.
And stare just like t'at into my eyes,
with gazes so clear, sweet and wise.
But never ever hesitate my love,
just like gladness nurses and shelters its laughter,
and how springs yearn to taste long summers.
Ah, thy white skin so made of eternal shades
a symbol of youth t'at just never fades.
How canst, how canst thou be so comely?
And with thy grace thou art but too lovely
For my Eastern being to bear,
and my curious soul to share.
O thee, my Western, Western prince!
Make me all brave; lure and tease me
'Till I canst no more resist thee.
How could thou but slip and enthrall my songs-
whenst all whose tones hath just gone wrong!
Andst how could thou write my poem-
with its my coquettish, and girlish rhyme;
as if having in thy hand, endless wits and time!
Ah, I hopeth thou shalt always be with me,
and wert but born and sewn for me-
o, and always just for me, selfishly.
And at one bare noon lifts my love,
into thy hands and thy merry soul
becoming thy dream princess sole.

Rife with hate, and ripe with disdain
Full of love, yet smelling of pain
Within my heart only thou shalt remain;
until t'is sun dies and it all starts raining again.

And betwixt me, in my white chamber
Only upon thy smile I canst heartily ponder
Ah, having seen thee not since cold Sunday
As if I didst recall thee not morn yesterday.

I knowest I should carest not for thee;
for I thought not of thou and I.
But to my heart I no more lie;
it is not thou and I but we.

Ah, but why hath thou disappeared again, my love?
I who is sure thou art my half,
and even in t'ese all guilty, ye' gullible miseries dwell-
like a blind and dumb nut in a proud shell.

What am I to thee, after all t'is sorrow?
And th' pertinent pain I'th put to stand out and glow
In th' mind t'at I would somehow becomest thy rose
and lighten thee aft'r thy breezy frost

But thou wert not, thou wert not t'ere!
I am someone who should not care
How canst then I shove 'way t'ese tears?
Oh, all t'ese feelings are here-painted grimly blue and weird,
just like yon scarlet gloom our anguish hath feared.
Ah! Wherefore art thou, wherefore art thou, my skylark?
Let it just be th' moon who is to shine and spark
Glow and be as mad in its circles dark
As I leanest 'gainst thee in yon west park,
thoughts free from all nearby childish hassles
and dream, dream into th' realms of our loving puzzles.

Oh, but thou wert t'ere not, thou careth for me not!
Now all my long sentences maketh but t'is poem's story short
Yet again, after all I've finally realised t'at I loveth thee,
and for thou knoweth-amongst all t'ese abrupt madnesses
'Tis thy voice I still hopelessly long for, and thy caresses
art but t'at I secretly yearn, and shalt forever die for.
Oh, my thee! And triumphs of mine shalt lie in thee;
for from death to death I shalt only celebrate victory,
as long as thou dwelleth in me, and I in thy story.

Ah! And stiffen my soul once more-with thy kisses,
whilst stare into me with t'ose thick golden lashes.
Hidest our longings behind th' bushes-
and t'is sacred gift of our love,
as rain falls and redness flashes.

Tempt me into thy votive spell;
and please no longer say goodbye.
Giveth my heart joy and please me well;
put thy lips on mine 'till I die.

Thinking of thee makes me feel love;
Love so sweet and deeper than mine.
Unlike the winds, I cannot move;
Unlike the sun, I cannot shine.

To be thy own love is my dream;
no more my past, nor but of him.
He once filled my heart and destroyed;
He lent me an unthoughtful joy.

To dream of him is but a pain;
Thoughts that shall fray in feeble rain.
Shall never I want him again;
Only my curses, shall remain.

Like butterflies in the garden
Thy images flirt 'bout like heaven
Thou art handsomer than glosses;
Even more p'rilous than roses.

Thou shall cure me of all torments;
Thou shall be my real gentleman.
Best of the stories I invent,
A tame hero; a loyal friend.

He is a past too far away;
He whose worries are past dismay;
He traced my path last September;
out of autumn fogs and winter.

He lured me into his foresight;
let me astray in memory.
He knows nothing of wrong and right;
He is too blind to say sorry.

Far I'd wandered past cliffs and beaches;
Until thy heart came into view.
Thou turned backwards within my reach;
Bringing me fresh feelings and clues.

Thou found me 'gain in summer's bliss,
Thou stole my love from heart of his.
I saw in thy bright complexion,
Neither lies nor trepidations.

Thou art worth all salutations,
The ringing joys of fond prayers.
Thou art the fruit of all seasons,
Son of truth and a fast healer.

Thou art the song of morn and night;
Thou art Lantern to all delight.
To be with thee is'a great blessing;
As are t'ese crazes, and love feelings.

And being with thee feels just right;
To breathe by thee at a holy night.
Thou art profuse, like yon foliage;
Good as my dreams, of marriage.

Yester' I stood by the lagoon
The air was fair at that dry noon
Oh and my heart grew dearly fond!
Of that sight just next to the pond!

A bush of lavish strawberries
Just as sweet as my ripe cherries
Young like a bunch of chaste ladies
Dart'd I to harvest some berries!

Sang I 'till spill'd the dazzling snow
Unlike the frightened tomorrow
White and holy its shine and glow
Felt I how it smeared 'long my brow!

That moment my legs but grew still
As snow streamed downwards like a shield
'Tis got me scared gave me a thrill
As I stood pale right on the field!

The ragged plants the mirthless clouds
Haunted abbey and reckless shouts
Tore my sights into 'nother world
In some music and wan long chords!

I was 'fore a dark corridor
When you're 'bout to walk out the door
How your scent's just what I adored!
And yon black jacket that you wore!

But suddenly in sprang the wolf
In the blink of a thunderbolt
Scythed you in a terrific howl
Left you lifeless in bitter jolts!

I screamed I called you out in vain
'Cos you could no more hold the pain
Blood swarmed your wrist as it grew weak
I was the last to hear you speak

That you loved me and needed me
Said those praises undoubtedly!
I kept wailing I couldn't think
My whole love would go in one clink!

I buried my head in your chest
To embrace all but its last breaths
I rubbed my tears upon your breast
'Fore you went to eternal rest

I wailed for **'rs till came the night
No-one to help me was in sight
I was desp'rate and torn by fright
When I caught a dim gentle light!

The light was no-one else but thee!
Thou graciously sat there by me
Amongst the snow beside the tree
'Twas a dream but I now was free!

And bending thy face onto mine
The snowfall's no more but sunshine!
Wedded my keen love into thine,
to other loves would I be blind.

Did you never know -- how much you loved me,
that night, with those prone rolling hazes
around us -- the ones entrapped in such dim,
salubrious air? Your charms, your smiles, and your
reddening cheeks -- all are the ones that flocked into
my mind. I was enthralled, I was flattered!
But you were too pure and fresh-hearted, I admit,
untouched like the faint showering rain; and its gay entourage
as though in a singular dream in the moonlight
-- but frowning again, again, and all over its wings
at the alarming torch of the morning sun.
Full of hesitation was your soul, and affirmative instinct --
but unsullied as my own unripe grace, and eloquent
seriousness -- you were but too pure, too pure to know.

Fate is a wind, and when the snow did fall again
I could not help but smiling at that memory --
with just a shaded tint of plain curiosity!
Memory of you -- so precious; and duly monstrous
amidst those roaring vapours, and gales -- of the sky.
It’s our secret, you know; but as I gazed into you again
in this serene morning walk --
I suddenly knew what it means -- my dear, my dear.

You live within me.
You dance through my veins.
You fill my lungs with sighs;
you give me pristine air to breathe.

You flirt with me,
you salute me
and hail me
by the fierce moonlight.
You call me a princess,
you laugh with me
and touch my hand
over yon old wooden bench.
You read me poems,
you smile at delight
and cry at every gloom.
With a craze so sweet
You wipe out my tears
and send blushes
all over my cheeks.
You know my story,
you are amazed
at the shapes I tell of
and the mean princes
I write of.
You are my morn
and night poetry,
you are the tale
that makes me forget
and the only song
that makes me forgive.

You shower me with love,
you soak my bones
and give my heart its beat.
You warm me up
behind the cold walls,
you hug my spirit
as the wicked storm falls.

You were born within me,
you grew and aged inside me.
You glorify and empower me,
you lift me up and cherish me.
You console me when I am sad,
you sing for me when all goes mad.
You feel guilty when I am wrong,
you feed my flesh and make it strong.

You please my soul,
you cure my pain with joy.
You are the charms,
that strangle and capture me.
You are the birth
of my every mirth!
You are the triumph
that I strive for,
You are the light
that shields my mind,
the nearby sun
that feeds my love.

I am in love, and in love with him;
I'll love him t'night, under th' moonbeams;
And who shall say-t'at he's really mean?
As far as I know, he's funny and keen;
I am but trapped, between his West' worlds;
Too polite for poems; too tactful for words.
I'm alive no more, by my Eastern wings;
Only a poem at nights; but none on mornings.
I seekest only him thus, with such eyes so blue;
A promise faint still, but delights so true.
I loved his yesterday, and shall do his tomorrow;
I loveth him like t'at-within th' very here and now.
Ah, but shall he ever perfectly know-
T'at I singeth his songs, and painteth his rainbow?
And should t'is lasting love ever transform;
I too wouldst change, I'd take any form.
I may not be within his green leaves;
But I'll 'ways be t'ere, even in his tears.
I am to be th' queen within his throne;
And owneth his secret, intended for my eyes alone.
His skin is even brighter than t'is sunny day;
His blue eyes were mine in dreams, and th' whole of today.
I am th' lover of his goods, th' charms of his bads;
I loveth him happily, and sacredly; in flesh and in all my head.
And whenst my soul he began to tease,
All I ever wanted was to share his kiss;
And by him I feelest but peace,
No dire annoyance, just one secret bliss;
And 'tis his lips t'at shall be my taste;
What a love t'at groweth-but never is in haste!
Ah, and I wanteth to taste just his watery breath;
So let's just hope t'at t'is world hath no death-
At least no death before he is mine;
Th' one I hath yearnt for, th' one on my mind;
And perhaps love canst be direly ill;
But none canst presume aught; nor what I might feel.
And whenst but cometh th' shriekings of fall;
Still 'tis his voice, t'at I loveth at all.

And t'is is truthfully why I am here, my love:
I belong to thee, sacredly, entirely, and soulfully
to thee-yes, only to thee!
My eyes brighten at every sight of thee,
my mind delights at the thoughts of thee,
my pulse fastens at the views of thee,
my blood curdles at the scent of thee,
my veins rustle at the gaze of thee-and hark!
Hark now, dearest-how my heart leaps,
sheepishly yet excitedly-when'ver I recall thee!
Ah, and how t'is feeling trembles and fidgets
as always, as thou stareth back-gladly and
with a smile so handsome yet animated and playful-
sweeping straightly back into my soul.
Like t'ose stupefying, sentient glazes of summers-
blowing silently with the rustic gallantry
of t'eir ruddy oaks, my heart is elevated
with defiant, but affectionate branches
of terrific, terrific love for thee!
Oh! And t'ese thou but needst to know-
t'at both my virtuous-and vicious lusts-crave only thee,
as well as how my pure joys rely on thee!
As despairingly as how
my soul was born for thee,
my life was crafted for thee,
my hands were paired with thee,
and thus so graciously are my young feet-
my toes, my ribs, my lungs, and the very limbs
in which my spines might dwell, and be celebrated
by thy gentle, manly breath.
Oh, how thou, my Western prince-so delicate
and blessed with all the might
of my very being-thou hath, my love, since the very first
been my gem, my bronze, my silver, my gold,
my charm, my pearl, my diamond, my light,
my fire, my treasure, and my lifelong dreams-as thou
shalt always be!
And so art thou the perfect accord
to comply with all such of my mine;
as thou art but the freshest bloom
of my ****** years,
as innocent as t'is nature's peaceful labyrinths-
but youthful and starry like the fruit of my most curious-
yet ardently succulent imagination.
And how I am so devoted to thee, my love!
Just like the stars are to the moon above.

I cry in love, I love in hate;
sorrow t'at no-one should create!
Whenst no gladness runs my heart's brake
It's thy own image t'at I'll make.

I remember lightly t'at day
As I caught thee on my morn way
With some radiance on thy brow;
thy words to me began to flow.

How at thy gaze my heart fluttered;
and as we stared my cheeks ripened!
Easily didst t'eir shells turn red;
and my body, numb went with sweat!

Ah! T'ose docile roots within t'eir ***,
cunning creatures of o'r smug Lord!
With eager thirst t'ey peered at us,
sketching a poem as we conversed!

And t'at quaint note I filch'd from 'em-
what a gay song on t'eir young stem!
I knew just t'en how thou doth feel-
from yon crisp leaf and its mild seal!

Seized it as I two nites af-ter-
mine heartbeat fastened with lau'hter!
'pon learning thy name on its end;
so dearly crafted by thy hand!

O! How thou planted into th' cells-
th' living plants, amongst t'eir wells!
T'is piece on loving confession-
and such tender expectations!

I danced gaily in victory-
immersed myself in vile glory!
Ah! Didst I flounce myself right outside
To lure and bringst thee t'wards my side.

'Twas th' start of o'r story;
and my at-first-sight love for thee.
O, in thy arms I weave my might;
and in thy warmth, I findeth delight.

Lies, compliant lies, that spell
Our names and wish us well;
But hidden in whose blood is war –
Subpar but harsh to understand.

Lies, such lies are possible;
All within the broke world’s trouble,
What is love without loveliness,
What are tears without sadness;

Lies, such lies do exist;
But be seen through happy mist,
The mildest one felt at heart,
Tearing at us, consumes our blood;

Lies, such lies are ever born;
Unblinking amongst God’s thorns,
That He dies in its shrine;
Frayed in the morning sunshine.

That yon life of ours is scratched;
Not even when truths are fetched,
Growing into the skies of autumn,
That look like those radiant poems;

That the grass shall not be green;
And the midnight is not seen,
Though lovelier than summers,
Washed with ****** thunders.

And poems lie not, they shan’t;
They are what the heart wants,
The words of despaired justice,
The divided bliss, soaked kiss.

And the poet is right – of warmth;
Only to be found in real charms,
And their dignity that all knew—
Lies are undignified, untrue.

What is it with violent hearts;
Those that make our souls cry,
And tear our feelings apart,
But tears are true to the sky.

What is it with untouched lies;
The lies that thread us but tore,
As though there was no more,
When truth finally dies.

What is it with unheard death;
As we deepen our last breath,
Will we find love, and comfort;
Unnamed tales that were cut short.

What is it with lovely riddles;
Dwindling our minds to tears,
Ridding our eyes of fears,
Peering through rough scraggle.  

And the poet shall know better;
That honesty has died alone,
Not much of Desire is known,
No truth shall last forever.

And the poem shall read longer;
That grass is blue, and green rain
Are what is to happen ever,
Pain is normal at all, again;

And the poet shall have left;
To be just but to be unjust,
Moments are never to last,
Love is not what hearts have.

And the poem shall have caved;
In to the pain ‘tis meant to be,
That no more bears meanings to see,
No more love shall be saved.

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.

Let me kiss you until I die,
and be your lover once again.
So I could trust that you'd not lie,
and would not let go of my hand.

Let me hear your voice once more,
and sing your love with tenderness.
So you would not walk out the door,
and stay with me in happiness.

Let me be your mirth and your joy,
to cheer your day with my laughter.
Giggling like a girl and a boy,
just as we greet the morn weather.

Let me live our pictures once more,
so full of embrace and vigour.
To dream of caressing your skin,
and being wrapped beneath your veins.

Let me be the sun to your spring,
and the cure to your wounded wing.
Be lost in your charms and ardour,
be swept in your love and fervour.

Let me carry you to the sky,
to play with the the star and the moon.
Meet me when the wren starts to fly,
next to the trees of the lagoon.

O my letters! Thy breath that all seems so plain and white,
and yet looks all so fierce and stunning,
against my tremulous hands
tied to this pen's bestowing string.
And let them drop down on me to-night.
This said,- he longs to have me in his sight, once,
as a friend, as lovely as the fiendish flower spring;
as simple as a far summer fling.
The latter said,- 'I love thee', and I buried my head
straight in a quivering, yet awesome delight!
The last said,- 'I am thine', and so, its ink never pales
in my heart
that altogether beats too fast!

Prelude
Seeing thee again is indeed invigorating-look at how my thoughts are now brimming-with t'eir lost souls! T'ose souls who faded away-as I was severely bereft of my muchness. But now I am glowing with it again, whenever I remembereth our chilly encounter t'is afternoon; thou wandering at lightning pace-in thy fond childishness! But furthermore thou in t'ose fond eyes-and t'eir depth, o! Thinking of thee makes my heart shimmer-and credulous to thy gentle love. And I shall but never go wrong again-as our fates, I assume; are but inevitably, and so dearly, bound to each other, my dear, my dear.

O, and but today wasth I chanced to see my lover;
shining bright and tender like a glade in a bower.
Storming out in gladness out of his chamber;
and as we talked his face grew fonder!

O, lovelier and keener didst he become, through th' more
subservient seconds-as though truly adorned with passion,
Entranced by such courage and fated determination.
I listened carefully to his fond elaboration;
and confined myself to my meek walls of admiration.

My thee, o, my thee!
T'is as if everything hath been our fierce destiny
And shall our paths but cross again-
of which I'm certain, under yon strumming daylight-
when t'at weeping moon waivers.
And all t'at wailing bark shall ever come to an end-as our
luminous, but fair melody lingers.

My moon-and th' following morning, it
shan't any longer be weeping.
To th' despondent grass wilt it start singing-bestowing
th' delayed merit whilst bent is 'tis body-and dancing:
Every other fault shalt come back
from t'eir mistake!
And th' latent dangers shalt be put well
at a steep stake.

And t'ose rings-o, rings of love, as t'ey are, by t'is wan light silver
A light whose abyss shan't ever again last forever.
And protected as we are-chained by our ripe love-
Shall we proceed into serene joy, and resides there-
within th' grand layers of our hearts, and splendid flames
of t'is wondrous eternity.

I tastest t'is wind-ah, still far too sour, and bitter,
And whether it shall get better, I never knoweth;
But who says t'at our past woes are tethered to our sorrow,
When two souls doth align-and find once more-a brighter shelter?
For every real love shall neither be wrong, faulty, nor mean,
Whenst beauty is appraised, it shall stay humble and remain unseen;
For its comeliness is just like a warm-hearted sparkle,
Even friendlier, than life canst once assume-or handle;
Though ethereal still, in the vagueness of my succulent mirror.
For look-how it returns my kisses not-but tempts it into shabby remorse!
Ah, yet I imagine how it might-and might just feel, to kiss thee,
And free myself-from t'is emptiness which hath oft' set me alight, in agony;
Without thee now, I am too frail and not very strong;
I loveth thee better still-and hath been awaiting thee all along.

My love is somewhere I can't find,
and I'm wand'ring here like a ghost.
My senses are from the cold blind,
and the bird's song's my only host.

I'm trapped here like the falling snow,
my darling where is no-one knows.
An adult game and a doll show
are my book as the sun goes low.

O my dearest but I need you
Come here so I know you'd be true
How can my Christmas be so blue
With no pine tree or mistletoe

O but amongst this sultry day
A holy love for which I pray
So I could hear one word you say,
that you'd still need me all the way.

To a passer-by
Whose eyes are as blue as the sky
whose grief is maddened, whose cries are silenced
but whose joys are quenching;
The hiding sun is on your lips
As beguiling as the sky-lark's song:
thy movement left me fainting and murmuring all along!
That roaring sea of blueness - glistening in the wintry throng;
endless and limitless in its own fieriness, which thy gracefully bestowed upon me!
And the bronze of thy hair, thy smooth, cloudless hair!
How unsorted this gleefulness is, upon harking to thy voices!
Yet shadowed by the fitful trees,
Murky is their grin, greedy is their rind
Oh then how I had to leave thee; for the slim but fleeting rain!
No, how I longed for thee, thee with me!
Oh the dear, dear love of my life! How sought is thy presence, how cherished it is in my fair chest!
Had I then to relent,
I sprang from my lavished comfort, I retreated to my creaking den
And wanly blent myself into the scenes, again.

I'll dream of thee again tonight
Under the dark, and the sweet red light
I'll write you a piece of poetry
About a tender love story

I'll dream of the charm of Sofia
And sing it in my cantata
I'll dance again, again, and again
'Till this night fades, and comes morning rain

And now please come, come, come and come to me
'Mongst the bushes, and the rainbow tree
In your fair shapes, that no eyes could see
And be by me, as long as you want to be.

Now talk to me, and not to her
Who has loved you, from the very first
Feed on my love, and not on hers
I will fill your heart's sweat and thirst

Come to me again, oh you sweet
Listen to my poetry's last bit
Oh I want you, and want you alone
I'll have you wholly on my own.

You are as charming as rainfalls
Sweet as whispers behind the walls
And your love be my eternal
You are undead, you are immortal.

O aye, but dreaming again is to no avail;
I am enraptured by this dangerous, unperturbed soliloquy.
'Tis within a river of shadows, I could sense no beauty but thee,
that soft mirrored image of thee, beneath the shrieking winds - and
the mortal moon; now and again!
Let me huddle thee now, and rant 'bout thee -
in 'tis wrath of harmony, and the lap of its seething silence,
standing unbroken by the sultry day. Let me comfort thee -
enlighten and tease thee, but love thee still tenderly, my dear, my dear.

I may still prefer death to loving him,
For ‘till death itself cometh, he may only live in my dream;
His eyes are a pair of panoramic twin oceans;
Too vengeful for poems, too tactful for words.
The owner of a heart I’th never seen;
But watched only t’is morning, as we sauntered along his roads.
Ah, he might be possess not a calm universe;
But still too solemn for a song-swift as he is, in my very verse!
I am a little butterfly trapped between his fair worlds,
I am his sunny heat, and my blood his chilly colds;
And as I strolled by him in t’is summer breeze,
All I ever wanted was to share his kiss;
For whenst he is upon me, all I duly feelest is mighty bliss;
I am deaf as a dead thorn-which liveth again, as he cometh again.
Yet as I'th said, all shall but fade in a blurred gasp;
For he is mine not, and might never dwell, within my weak grasp.

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.

Wayne, Wayne, Wayne.
My dear solitary Wayne.
I want to write about Wayne again tonight;
with his head in my lap and a candle
by my side.
With a torn heart that has healed,
A sordid love that has recovered.
Wayne, in tonight's candlelight looking damp
and fragile,
Like the cheap autumnal winds
He has struggled to step out from.
Wayne, I can see winds in his hair;
The sea in his eyes;
Which are too thick and oceanic blue.
Wayne, with his breath in front of me,
Like a pure puff of wintry smoke,
He chants loving spells again and again.

Wayne, Wayne, Wayne,
And guess how this heart could meet with thine;
And think how my poetry should be written--
if only there was not a sign of thee here.
Thou art the very thread that I write,
A breath that inspires,
A heart that is ne'er too tired to smile.
A dream I had carried all along--before that one
sunny day.
A dream I had troubled myself to think about.
Ah, Wayne.
If only I could heal that sadness in thy eyes;
Although with a tongue of satires and lies;
Then I would do so now, with thee here,
Ah, but at a night too loud and surly,
I can but barely see thee here.
I feel thy golden hair, smooth like silk in my hand,
And thy curved cheeks which oft' smile like
a little boy.
Ah, Wayne, but why art thou with me here;
I, who is neither popular nor unpopular,
I, who is neither famous nor infamous,
I, who says and writes just like a poet does,
I, an irregular poet, with some odd, lame greasy odes.
I, the phantom this land wants not to see,
I, and my secrets that they know not about.
I, who remains futile to the whole sneering stars;
and I, who is neither blind, nor able to see.
I, who in her prayers is consumed,
By the cold flaws of the universe,
I, who oft' cannot see my own skin.
I, who has but lost the warmth of my hands,
And whose heart is ice cold, buried deep in its own
Shrieking labyrinth of deadened peace.
Ah, and I, who sometimes longs just to hear thy voice,
And dream of a night of bliss with thee.

Wayne, Wayne, Wayne,
And I, thy futile friend,
With a lost conscience I have given to thy hand,
I write only a vain poem again,
I, who has denied my own taste and grace
And dreamed of bitterness, once, and disgrace.
For perhaps thou wilt not think nor say of me;
For my beauty is not a beauty to thee;
For my beauty, to thee, exists only in sleep.
When thou saith I am beautiful,
I blush and become forgetful,
But a saying is not faithful
And words are false and not cordial.
I, a friend, sometimes hear stories of another friend;
A friend for whom thy heart serenely longs;
But a vague one, like one of summer's rejected old songs.
But what about me--and my own heart;
A scar is left there that pierces it apart;
A scar that perhaps shan't heal again;
Ah, Wayne, for thou hear me not, nor see my pain.
A secret hidden deep in my lofty lungs;
A fleshy wound I have carried all along.

And I wonder why she is not here;
While she is not me, and I am her not;
And all those of her sound so lithe and bare;
But, ah, in such silence I shan't turn to care.

And I wonder why she sees you not;
And hugs you not when it freezes to cold;
Shoulder you not behind the watery rain;
Shredding not your tears, nor your grief in pain;

But I am not her, and I am not thine;
I shrink by thee still under her rain;
And in thy charms so shall she live.
Perhaps thou shalt never know,
But I am here like I am now,
Clogged in the wrath of my beauty,
Who sometimes seeks and seeks thee not.
And I am still here like now,
Frozen in the air of my poetry,
Cold in such tears that can't lie;
Caught at the eastern wings of the sky,
Unable to move, 'till thou again pass by.

Immortal, Immortal
I can only call you 'Immortal',
And not your name; which is as bright, and charming as rainfalls.
A name I sadly have to conceal;
A name that awakens my love, and sends into me-a tender loving thrill.

Immortal, Immortal
Your voice is the one I long to hear;
The voice that fills me with both love, and tears.
For 'tis not me, that owns your virtue;
For 'tis still her, whom is righted to love you.

Immortal, Immortal
I have no right to call your name;
Otherwise I shall be the one you blame.
For even thinking of you is a mistake;
A mistake I am cursed for, a mistake I ought not to dare to make.

Immortal, Immortal
Still every day my heart calls your name out;
Until it alone stops breathing; until my chest can no more shout.
Until the very moment my pulse grows weak;
And where these words, shall be the last I speak.

Thou art no longer fortunate:
thine is now a sad soul - but just as heretofore!
And weep, weep, my surly fellow -
in the dreary mimicry of a sultry day.
Hot, unforgiving, and uncaring.
I entreat thee, now do!
For I am now in the cradle of a master:
a disguise that lasts forever;
so long as it should go;
so long as it should probably be.
Bloom in thy cries, you fool,
swell in thy sleep, you creep,
yet forget me, release me,
and the torturous being you used to be
repel everything your soul has seen!
I am to mount a journey;
and shan't let this pureness be stained by thee.

And here I am, back in my anthology;
Although I have immersed myself in clouded sleep,
Whose sickly sweet could heal me no more;
I was but a tempted dawn in his lap,
A frail daughter of fate, and chastity;
My fatal sleep alone was a curse, to one and others.

Silence, beautiful voice!
How should I instill thee—and instill thee more?
And how wert thou so aloof, though deeply poised?
For every breath that I writ, and taste
is but a luminous sign of death;
an unhappy ding towards my presence,
and its mortal cringe, that is ending by the day.
And thus in such a life there is no wit
Nor cold enough, to redeem its wrath;
A wrath that shall leave this earth untouched,
A grime that hastens much, that all joy
Shall sicken and roam fast, unconsumed.
Why should all be jolly—but not to me,
Not to me, a dutiful daughter of my past,
But whose heart has hurt, by its last;
Whose tears are pure, but not profound;
Ah, me, whom such bland minds scorn in their right,
Me, whom their commoners refuse in plain sight,
Me, whom hath lost my dream of the arts,
Me, whom hath died of my own screams at night!
Ah, who am I but to redeem my joy again,
and claim a delight that was not my friend—
Ah, and which conscious soul is but to comprehend its right,
The extraordinaire of which—that are not moral nor righteous,
Nor are their tendrils—which are not even theirs,
At such a hand full of perils, risky and scandalous.
Who is longing for the pearls of a vision,
Who yearns but for love, for reincarnation,
And no love is dubious, none that remains,
But oblivious, a dire threat to its loving friend;
My fate has lost its way, to the white and cold,
My love has gone, and shan’t be with me again.

Where is but my poem, my little flushed cheek,
Why were you yesterday so smooth and meek?
Where did you hold my destiny, with a fate so clear,
Why did you choose to love me, with a love so weird;
But with no real heart to love me, and my judgments,
Shall I but be allowed to make judgments?
For there were too many taunting ways in which love swore,
And again I was dragged to the vile hot shore,
So my wisdom has raged in a swath of labyrinths,
Too painful for a soul too mean, but not a poet;
Too indecisive to read, let alone to comprehend,
And too unloved to understand, nor seek in a daze,
Perhaps unloved by its own words, like a ******,
Immature in their own corrupt years, like you are;
You are a naïve product of my mind, you are pure,
Of whose love never my sound thought is so sure,
Though hastened by a bare world not ours,
Nor a cycle that is mine, with pain so sour.

Silence, my love; and let briefness lulls you to sleep,
To the lethal eternity which salutes you, be gone,
Gone away like an eerie fairy in mortal dreams,
With their gates ajar, welcoming you in such
clamped dramas, a loveliness without thee,
A cheapness I would not by—nor defend
On the name of my artistic soul.
Did my lavender greet you and cherish you again,
And shall such a loving bud be that of thine;
But to speak less, and remain silent, o my friend—
is but a garment; a nicety to the friendly mind,
Oft’ cornered in daylight, but glazy to the lone night,
The night is kind and festive, unlike the wan sunlight,
Rotting ever is its flesh, dimmed by such sharp sins;
And grandeur and artiste which I once befriended,
That I was a deep dear of whom—‘till I was torn,
By the disfigured spring and summer
Blaming the poor beheaded winter,
A thousand miles from here, into the West yonder.

But who is to love by the spring and bright,
But who is to listen, to hear by the moonlight,
To linger forever ‘till I catch your sight,
To hesitate to claim your love, forever;
Which steals and shine on a lie, that eternally;
Who stand not by my side, in a fateful wake
Of dozens of seas and shores—and untouched dust;
And then all died, so that I ask you,
My literature, whose heart has been but one love,
Whose heart been pained, and disgraced;
In a suited torment and whirling betrayal,
To see once more, a night of sparkles and shades,
To rejoice by a lake of wind, and beautiful glades;
To relish more the charm of poetry, and the beastly—
but glorious freakish rain, so long as you are with me.

In a thought of mine, springs the midnight air;
All is my free beauty so cold and fair,
And I am devoid of a hundred stellar suns;
The illiterate to read, the stifled anguish gone.

In a thought of thee, springs the buoyant mind;
A painting so clear with an electric lair,
That all are a guitar and drum, as it sounds;
That a renewed love has been found.

In a thought of ours, springs the forest rain;
A poem to dim down that eternal drain,
To cease the doubts, and decipher all pains,
Bring me my sweet love, my immortal friend.

In a thought of love, springs the live sonata;
That all hesitation is a panorama,
Like the dramatic act, and its tragedies;
I shall sink myself in thy melodies.

In a thought of breath, springs the sweet song;
That battles rage and its dark humour,
That all mirages shall live in downpours,
That all happiness shall last a night long.

In a thought of fate, springs the sweet poem;
All in my life is a literary grandeur,
All within me desires to writ and love;
All about me in a satin room.

In a thought of joy, springs the sweet tale;
I shall wish thee the best of all and well,
I shall wish thee love, and a story to tell;
In one decreed satire, and hurried wedding bell.

In a thought of two, springs our promise;
All my nightingale and its sweet bliss,
Who is to cherish thee, so grand and wise;
Who is to be thine, so wild as a surprise?

In a thought of one, springs unity;
That all thy beauty shall be rain and youth,
And a word of love forming in my mouth;
And two hearts joining into eternity.

In a thought of bliss, shall I be here;
Such miracles shall be found near,
Who is then to listen to bare wisdom,
Concealed behind naïve truth, inside a poem?

In a thought of light, shall thou be loved;
Among the thousands of larks in the woods,
For I have chosen you to be in my words;
To be my little star, to be my beloved.

In a thought of wind, shall we find cold;
For cold itself is peace on its side,
A turmoil blending into our awake night;
A disgrace dying by a thousand lights.

In a thought of cold, shall we find grace;
Naïve in its glimpses of faltered fears,
But knowing us both yet not;
That it can but challenge the tears.

In a thought of warmth, shall we find youth;
Its spirit shattering the tearful past,
And shall we run, to find in which another smile,
And wipe all our painstaking breaths away.

In a thought of theirs, shall we find hate;
Its song slaughtering the daisies of fate,
In its velvet ways that are so simple;
A harmless perfume to the demented world.

In a thought of Him, shall we find peace;
No prayer shall be void to a sacred move,
And then I shall unite myself with thee;
Like the song sings, the poet and her love.

In a thought of you, shall we find ways;
Perhaps hidden and buried in eerieness,
No thought is too airy, not in the day;
No space is too mild, nor are they cold.

In a thought of us, shall we find life;
You are my rose and magical truth,
That who refills my chest and breath,
That who delights in me, and my red fate.

In a thought of life, shall we find ease;
All about life are roses and raging beasts,
There is happiness to forgive sins,
There is joy to a poem, and what it means;

In a thought of breath, shall we find love;
That no wrath comes near, that we find home,
That poetic arch of mine and thine,
That all lust and enormity are gone.

In a thought of night, shall we be there;
Holding each other and on to the air,
That all tears sound hastened and weird,
That our damp love is all I care.

In a thought of charm, shall we be free;
All the storms that are not tears,
And freedom that shall be here,
Presenting itself to be with me.

In a thought of rain, shall we be fine;
And in one leap of joy, thou shalt be mine,
And be my poems and words everlasting,
In the dark of the night—by the morning.

In a thought of gloss, shall fear be gone;
And my sheer heart shall be thine alone,
Be my poem a book that chastely sings,
Be thou an angel that has wings.

In a thought of truth, shall life be ours;
That all is a tale at midnight hours,
And be like a poetry of unity,
My heart lives there for eternity.

In a thought that vast, who thinks about the past;
When we crave for the poem that lasts,
And who is to fret at this new wonder;
My heart lives there forever.

In a thought that wild, who thinks about sad;
My past has left my whole mad,
Agitated by our renewed delight,
Terrified by our new dewy night.

In a thought that hastes, who says about poetry;
That all is a song our hearts can bear,
That all is enjoined lips, and their beauty;
That all is more than what they wear.

In a thought that sees, who frets about love;
That love is a substance cold and free,
****** only between you and me,
That love is a word, and words are enough.

In a thought that hears, who trusts but words;
That words shall witness those who speak,
That there is idyll in such truth, and worlds,
That words are honest, but not sickly.

In a thought that listens, who saints the sun;
There is too much hate in its glued merit,
That all is a gale but not a careful breath,
That all is bitter, and not at all sweet.

In a thought that loves, who says about love;
That love is hidden within your bare voice,
And your bare voice, in your entangled chest,
The very place I shall find ease and rest.

In a thought that writs, who says about wits;
All is mortal when they have not to say,
That they are blind at night, and in the day,
That their flooded souls shall find none too sweet.

In a thought that reads, who says about fits;
All is silence so far as the eye can see,
And who is there to flock my solitude?
I am far from the sun; and its mock servitude.

In a thought that thinks, who is to love lust;
For lust shall lose hope in one curt day,
That all is there only for the sun,
Bathed in hotness, charmed for nakedness.

In a thought that bears, who is to love hate;
For hate is the chain of every devil,
And in whose devil the world shall lay,
As that in ours, through the night and day.

In a thought that springs, who is to lose thee;
I’ve all along in the glistening white chamber,
My whiteness has been purified close,
I shall not be gone, I shan’t be lost;

In a thought that lives, who is to writ’ thee;
I’ve loved all the while in life, and in my words,
That I’ve given my love there—and so to thee,
That I shall breathe, so long as thou love me;

In a thought that breathes, who is to love thee;
I’ve loved all the years, and meanwhile,
I have been pained, and yet shall not fail;
I’ve loved and carried you still, all the while.

In a thought that whirls, have I dreamt of thee;
That such a thought shall make me sane,
And such a curse is devoid of pain,
The curse to love thee dearly, my friend;

In a thought that bursts, have I been thine;
That all solitude shall, at once, be fine,
And our bliss is faith, and faith is tonight;
I shall wait for thee by white moonlight.

All night my finery stirred to life;
And the satire I formerly loathed
I hath not hated again, but in haste
I hath been torn, I hath been faulted.

All night I adored the mystic words;
My love, that I had come to behold,
What is with the pain of this loving thee;
Perhaps no poet is as unsure as I am.

All night the arts were about me;
I saw pearls and jewels in the backyard
And bequeath the stones on the roads
To my startled darling, my dear;

All night the excitement was all here;
As a euphoria I could hear alone,
As a misery that was also delight,
For they could not see my ****** night.

All night my virginity was bare;
And my whole poems were laid here,
All of them sounded too weird,
All being constant madness, and tears.

All night I saw flawless snow grow;
And sadistic winter lasting longer,
I did not hear what the rest said,
My long poetry was all I had.

All night I spoke to my chaotic discourse,
All sounds being an unheard chorus,
And the earth a distorted choir
That I wanted not to peruse, nor hear.

All night I was in my deep delirium;
I heard not the nest, and walls of my room
But I should indeed not have cared,
They were not there, not too fair.

Who art thou, young bud, young star;
T’is melody but sees stars in thy hair,
Being a magnificent heir of the moon,
‘Tis a dream, to fade away too soon.

Who art thou, a malevolent voice;
To invite me into the air and its kiss,
When all in the room is frozen fits,
To be in a lovingly sung winter,

Who art thou, a translucent shadow;
Why am I here, but not in the know,
And t’is insanity is just not part of me,
My vivid fate, the last of thine to see,

Who art thou, a transformed beauty;
That I wish could not barely grow,
T’is insanity, that feeds off of me,
Waiting for thine, craving for thee,

Who art thou, a soundless presence;
I hath not batted away the very moment,
And who is here, to signal my audience,
I hath writ not a stern movement.

Who art thou, a voiceless ghost;
What is with the scout and pouting lips,
But handsome still, like an angel’s
Too handsome that thou amazed me.

Who art thou, a dizzy thought;
But a melancholy dream of my night,
I cannot see though thy abundance of lights,
Thou hath me wince, thou hath me taught.

Who art thou, a mad apparition;
Shalt thou sing to my new destination,
That the folded flutes hath to perch away,
Leaving us free, distant from today.

Who art thou, a disgraced grass;
For the whole of lone words is in line,
That blood of thine, and heart of mine,
That I cannot hear, nor wander at rest.

For a soliloquy tune is disgrace,
And a haloed shame to the sun;
Who cannot understand my tales,
And the speed within their calls.

For silence is gateless to all,
And them, the souls I care for;
For none like me was theirs before,
They can hear not when I call.

For the one I hath come for;
And to whom the draught is too much,
To whom who cannot see in March,
To whom who cannot see the light.

For the one I hath longed for;
And to whom I cannot belong,
I am too much weirdness for his song,
I am too much worry, too many chords.

For a breeze of morning moves was here;
With the moon gone on another errand,
And my clouded love was not at hand,
I could neither sing to square tunes, nor hear.

For a ray of morningness, that was yet to faint;
And to reminisce about thee, fiend,
Like to behold without my heart,
To drench me, and my weird love in haste.

I said to the sun, “There is but a pen
Whom my heart hath come to cheer,”
But then it left me alone to no friend,
The last echo of winter had dried away.

I said to the rose, “The brief cold goes
As the bloated dawn has caressed me,
But who shall see, and be in the know
I have not seen cold from my window.”

I said to the water, “The river seems cold
But not like the one I hath beheld,
Perhaps what looks cold, is not cold at all
Perhaps ‘tis not a darkling like me.”

I said to the tree, “The trees being shunned
Because I hath had them speak to me,
None is to be startled by my beauty,
Nor be excited by such wan poetry.”

From the black meadow hath risen a fate,
And a tale like me is perhaps too late,
They, at night, are wanting to go to bed
To be enhanced whilst they sleep, not live;

From the black shadow hath risen a twig;
Red in its vanity like streaming blood,
And perhaps I am drawn to such curse,
For in darkness I see, and be my own delight.

From the black moors hath risen a ghost;
Running against me whilst all is quiet,
And the sun is raging, at fierce speed,
My love for literature is not seen, unlit.

From the black grass hath risen snow;
The fantasy only I could know,
And I, startled by the menacing heat,
Untouched by the cold, and its field.

I hath had too much of the sun, and yet;
No promise hath been formed in my head,
I hath longed to leave, but yet
I hath to swim still towards the sunset.

I hath had too much of holes;
That none is too spacious, no more,
I hath had scars and tears to count,
I hath sinned against the foster moon.

For every morningness, hath I had
A doze of morning breeze, hath not met
With such loving eyes of thine;
Those bitter memories I hath in mind,

For every bitterness, hath I heard
A sliver of darklings towards my face,
I am not so sour nor icy as my words,
Still, they shalt see not my haste.

For every sullenness, hath I feared
My books shall adorn just displeased tears,
They are in idyll, yet shalt still not know
They left me then, and live not now.

For every cursed fate, hath I laughed
Misery is just not more a tear enough;
I hath dwelled in sorrows yet to come,
I hath not lived, nor called theirs home.

For every cursed life, hath I felt
With sane words drunk and misplaced,
I hath not been loved, just hated
For my poor insanities, of late.

For every cursed sigh, hath I feared
All such teasing hath hurt so weird
What is there in the cult of a pain;
Is there a consolation, a friend?

For every cursed sight, hath I told
The riddles and threads thou shan’t behold,
I am neither fierce nor too strong,
But who shall listen, or hear my song?

For every cursed light, hath I seen
A fate so awkward and truly mean;
Behind the burns and oaks and trickles,
At my miseries hath they giggled.

For every cursed poem, hath I writ
And left my untold discourse unfit;
And who are they, with insolent merits,
Yet too souls with insolent demerits,

For every cursed word, hath I seemed
Too disobeying and lustful for one,
But what am I without my frantic dreams;
And a page of failed lunatic desires?

For every cursed soul, hath I screamed
‘Tis a world so cloudless and limb,
They hath all words spoken too loud,
And sweetness feels like a nightmare.

For every cursed ink, hath I dreamed
Of wandering my sweet solitary nights
Beyond the crescent shape of my room;
I hath enough insanities to writ my poems.

For every cursed call, hath I writ
That to be in love again is not to meet,
For who am I, a maddened bard;
I hath no charm, I hath no heart,

For every cursed tale, hath I met
Stories of all dryness and wet,
That clutch to my hearts and hands;
Wanting to be my sands again.

For every cursed love, hath I slept
And in a hurled little dream wept,
Who shall want to break me free;
Who shall trace the beauty of me.

For every cursed heart, hath I hoped
And in a quiet little tune I sung,
Who shall see that I am proud;
Who shall read my words out loud.

For every cursed rhyme, hath I said
With written words that are too late,
Who shall be the one in sight;
Who shall retreat to my troubled nights.

For every cursed pen, hath I waited
For a love painstakingly late,
And who shall be my comfort;
Who shall be mine, my lord;

For every cursed page, hath I kissed
Silence by ‘tis own western feast,
And who shall say my remnants of bliss;
Who shall recite my words in threes?

For every cursed line, hath I missed
And since I may never be his
Who shall see me and fallen worlds,
Who shall be kind to my words?

For every cursed touch, hath I been
Hath I been there, and in love
Who shall see me in my thousand skies;
Who shall be mine, and as wise,

For every cursed past, hath I gone
And returned back with my ale alone;
Who shall be here to here me pray,
Who shall be here for what I say,

For every cursed soul, hath I loved
And in a murmuring smile I prayed,
Who shall see me as I am today;
Who shall love me still, every day.

How thy litheness dimmed by the light
but with gleams of c'rious insight
And shalt then thou start to sparkle
Grab victory, win the battle

Thou art just a little devil
Whose story gives people a shrill
But still thou never lose thy thrill;
abound with tricks, traps and bad will

How thou dwelt there within my heart!
Delights it and tears it apart!
Thou art the sky to my blunt night
Thou hold my fear and squeeze my fright

A little devil, just as thou art
Unloved by many holy hearts
But to me thou art not a fiend
At times thou art my only friend!

Thou liveth both my body and soul
Mocks the good deeds but praises the foul
When I am hurt thou start to grow
Give my en'mies a gravely show

How t'ose tears wrapped along thy eyes!
Blame the sick moon and moorish skies!
They've no love despite their promise
Our suffering's just what they shalt wish.

But I dear you, my little mate
Thou art my laugh and childlike path
Although unpraised just as we are
from each other we shan't be far.

The man I love is full of curiosity
He has a benign charm and ardour
His youthful soul is bright with splendor
He is far from madness and animosity

The man I love is nothing but distant
To him I am just a small yoke of childishness
I a servant who serves him a jar of friendliness
He a merchant, handsome precious but indignant

The man I love is not the one I met
He is the stem and root of my morning flower
Plump as a shade of the glade in a bower
Dainty as the evening dove's cozy net

The man I love has now been gone
Unreachable no matter how fast I could run
In his arms is a dame with endless beauty
Pleased as he is by her false murmurs of vivacity

The man I love is not within my sight
But he is still the one source of my gracious delight
In him only do I lose my thought and wildest daydreams
For him do I vow my love and the highest esteem.

A sweet, what a sweet dream it was
Wherein thou kissed me just like in the past
Among the cynical; yet boyishly handsome rain
A miracle was happening over and over again.

And I didst curse, curse the perilous morning
That rolled in with its chilliest epithet!
Within there hearts it is but dark and unbecoming,
the worst tears human minds shalt ever shed.

But how it kept coming, tumbling down-
onto my screeching night and dawn.
Now finally all have dwindled away,
and back I am; on this sunny, lonely day.