Poetry necrophiliac, poésie Necrophile.
La Mort des Amants
We shall have beds full of odors, light
couches deep as tombs,
And strange flowers on shelves,
blossomed for us Under more beautiful heavens.
Exercising at will their last heats,
Our two hearts will be two immense torches
Who
reflect their double light In our two souls, those twin mirrors.
An evening made of rose and mystic blue,
We exchange a single flash
Like a long sob, charged with farewells;
, fidèle et joyeux, Les miroirs ternis et
flammes les mortes.
The Death of Lovers We
a bed of soft smells,
couches deep as tombs,
and stems and flower vases will give us the strange aromas
under dawns purer.
Our hearts, loving stubbornness,
will torch the flame of his season:
two twin flames are your soul and mine, watching mirror
the eternal shore. Lightning
single spark beautiful, mystical
an afternoon of blue and pink, we
farewell, crying, sobbing. Then
an angel, opening doors, mirrors
murky and stagnant waters, shivering with joy
rise.
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