Upon highest waters,
Where the currents match our tears,
We were once in arms, tragic and long
Like the moon with its great form,
Bleeding newness into night,
So that the sun may greet the pale
With its roaring hues.
All I feel,
Is this fiery pain,
While a grave sleeps beside me,
It had started before me,
And now slumbers, continuously.
Every gray field
Of any lonely winter,
Makes music upon my old and worn soul.
Women and their hair, like spider’s nests,
Men and their ambitions, to Hell and back,
Caught in the scents,
Of tress after fragrant tress.
And of my beauty,
And her heap of sadness?
Her tears are the dew of any morning.
So wild, do they fade
With the tide beneath me,
At my ankles,
At my wrists.