I envy the melancholy blood that lights a question to kill myself,
a loathsome man of repulsive vision.
My death's striking club will tempt what discontent she swallowed,
but this goddess shalt torment a shadow of night.
We must feel the chase hast a time
where less than a sweet dream murmers love,
and a thousand gifts deceive nothing.
When delicate air is wilting, I'll ever be flying with her,
and beneath the misty spray of water,
my ghosts vow always to flower.
In frantic wait, Woman, don't haste.
Never would we fall here between a forest
to place the knife idle.
There is only your perilous sea to know,
my weakest want,
but my garden woes languidly to
almost sleep of skin.
I shall tell her all through my death,
and all she will write to our every moon is
"Why me, lover?"
There is no good to leave without your heart.
It's all a poisonous farewell.
