Among both bent wooden crosses and the stink of many a tomb
therein lies my former love like a foetus in its womb
vainly awaiting a birthtime which will never be anymore,
decayed the heart and all hopes, rotten to the very core.
Beneath a damp ever-mist I toil along the graveyard
up to the vault wherein she waits eager for her bard
beside somber marbled columns and grim stony gargoyles,
hovering wraiths, nightly creatures coming out of weird soils
to delight its rawboned souls until the selfsame last
of a ballad whose verses are spectres from the past
cruelly cloaked with the smiles of the love that once we got
before your pale-faced visage still untouched by dry rot,
of girlish eternal dun eyes drilling haughtily into mine
in quest of an ancient promise of devotion and gold wine
for which from the close church is tolling a bronze bell
spreading throughout the night loudly its betraying knell:
many dead to mourn for, aye, so many, so many dead,
from both of us' sealed lips, past a searing silken bed
to just a foreboded thought of our very own seed
mine and yours to beat the ages' malignant cobwebbed weed.