As you stand when I lay
And die over me.
Tresses so bleak and heavy,
As the newborn moon,
As tears rain from a face,
To see my face barren and white.
As white as death,
As crude as this soil.
I am wrapped in a box,
For your weeping.
I was in pain,
And now, I see your pain.
Tears fall like the universe,
Should it ever collapse.
Oh, love! Deign yourself not to cry,
Over my ending.
It is torment that you endure,
Is it not?
My love, with so many tears that drop,
Become selfish for once, and step back.
Your empathy is so high,
And I am so still.
Cold and dead,
In soil, I call a bed.
Death has not been kind to you,
Though, has been kind to me.
I feel no pain,
No sorrow, but I am the witness,
To how you weep,
To how you seep,
Those tears, from between your fingers.
I am the soil,
To which you drop your rain.
The death,
To which you let fall your pain,
Upon me, the dead man,
Who has left you, the deadened woman.
Modern Romanticism 