Tuesday, September 3, 2013

Lune malade


 You dark moon, deathly ill,
 Laid over heaven's sable pillow,
 Your fever-swollen gaze
 Enchants me like alien melody.
 
 You die of insatiable pangs of love,
 Suffocated in longing,
 You dark moon, deathly ill,
 Laid over heaven's sable pillow.
 
 The hotblooded lover
 Slinking heedless to the tryst
 You hearten with your play of light,
 Your pale blood wrung from torment,
 You dark moon, deathly ill.
 
 
Albert Giraud 

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