Grief...

...It's our splendor.

An archaic tragedy of

Our erotic dark desires,

I'm insane, totally insane

Nobody in the funeral,

Nobody cries to the solitary coffin

This lies under the candle's flame,

The flame dance as a sinuous and seductive body of

A viper woman

There are not flowers in the sad grave,

There's a sweet and empty forgetfulness sensation,

The blood is the essence of the life,

An endless anxiety, without course,

But there are still statues in marble of forlorn angels

They console the fertility of your bosoms,

They'll give as gift a black rose for you

But also there is not black flower,

Just a thorn of a cursed rose

Pricked in your angelical finger

And beautiful, the blood will drain

And my tortuous and serpentine tongue will dry this red tear,

When my chains involve you,

When your long and gold hair interlace

With strange force in my hands,

My journey will be long, but my time infinite

The angels aren't immortal.