O Lethe, take me to your abode.
My quill awaits your warm fingertips
O Lethe, flow me into your hands
Take me to your black, to find me, rest.

Ah… At last, my mind is in peace, not pieces
As my quivering lips press against your hand
As my throbbing head rests on your plush lap
As my heavy eyes shut from the aeons of weary

Your home of brimstones is my Paradise
But where is your face, Lethe?
My fingers ran through your streams of black
But where is your face, Lethe?
My lips pressed against your gloves of black
But where is your face, Lethe?
My eyes glared at your fiery pupils of black
But where is your face, Lethe?

Ah… where is your face, Lethe?
Even the waters can’t show me your face, Lethe.
Ah... where is your face, Lethe?
My bones felt your whispering… tender… voice.
But Heavens, where is my Lethe’s face?

Don’t veil your countenance, Lethe
I know, it is scarred and marred
I know. it is not… my Daphne’s
I know, it is not of million colours
But ‘Tis the brightest of all – Black...

Lethe, shew me your face, I implore you
Shew me your face gilded with strands of regalia
Before the agents of dawn sever me off you
Before the angels of the sun char off my joy

Heavens, let me be, in these waters of – Black...

I still have to and follow the inquiry
to learn to belove
at paid attention
every face
shaping
I encounter.
Because there is no fleeing
from any of them
when I look in the mirror
well
(and in dark glazed)