Where have graces taken thee,
When you shielded before fate and misery?
You play with the night,
Like a bouquet of roses,
Sniffed by children, and eaten by cats.
Believe me, in my woe,
You are the doomed harlot,
The failed woman of many curses.
Among that god between your legs,
There are eyes that cry a sorrow.
You glisten by day,
To glisten by night.
Both of body and complexion,
Does this aura arise.
And you make music through your sigh.
The sigh of pleasure,
The sickening sin of Lust.
You bled for God and his herd of Shepherds,
Felt Hell crawl on your naked skin,
And mistook it for Heaven.
These fields of ruin,
Are of my design,
Destined to bathe,
Among the odorous wine,
Of virgin blood and castrated swine.
Stretch your form, will you?
To the ends of the cruel Earth,
You’ll see a singing shape,
The scrotum and the shaft,
Was like a tower of gold,
Now but only rotten,
Was once a key to the Earth,
Grim faces torn everywhere,
Evil politicians and their false smiles.
You doomed harlot,
What maketh yourself of ourselves,
When we praise thee, and never the Lords,
Who drop tears, as you drop both blood and sweat?
Modern Romanticism 