Save me, graces,
The bleeding wound,
In me,
Has long thought of to be free.
Your idleness matches
My failure. And to the ship,
Where there are sailors,
They mask themselves in the breezes.
Fate awaits me,
Her dying body is a shelter,
One that throws love overboard.
Underneath my feet,
There are many serpents.
There are many insects I have crushed.
There is a face,
One so smooth and so round,
One so much attuned with life,
That it mocks me.
By a smile,
With teeth that are porcelain-white.
Death came natural to her,
As life comes to me, as futility.
Her youth and her resplendence,
So white and so vivid,
That I desire to devour it,
Beyond the lighthouse.
Come as she may,
Oh, woman of tragedy.
To the faults of every mire,
Of every sea and every sire.
Of every tombstone that grows higher,
To love, and to her arms, is all I desire.
Modern Romanticism 