Of stars, to stir through bleak dusk,
Down rivers of a trailing tear,
A woman raw in flesh, scent in musk,
Subtle sigh in mournful fear.
She would quell her beating chest,
Lay a hand below her chin,
As upon her face, a wash of white,
To echo a tune in deathly rest,
Strangled strings, that of a din,
Song of misery a strange delight.
But O, woman! How she sings,
Tears cause the river to flow,
Great ancient knell loudly rings,
Once, a dagger gleamed below,
In tapered fingers aside to belly,
Beautiful! Her eyes say much,
More than heart beating for shame,
Nothing, my heart feels no pity,
As she charms me in that clutch,
A tongue speaking grief the same.
I watch each strand of every tress,
Curl over shoulder, over pallid throat,
Tapered fingers curl over breast,
As every tear falls to devote,
In time by a frozen river,
Milky currents passing along,
Warms the aching in my heart,
For slender fingers do quiver,
And reddened lips singing a song,
For death brings us both to part.
The waking of a morning,
Speaks the joys from before,
As pale features light my grieving,
This poem of a woman’s lore,
Of a cold stone in a void,
A charm to grace my love,
Charming both beauty and grace,
Pain I thoroughly enjoyed,
There flies the raven above,
Down to rivers frozen in space.