Image by Enrique Meseguer from Pixabay

Oh, Melancholia!

How thou comest still at night

to stir the memories of a long-forgotten path.

Oh, Melancholia!

How gracious thine hand!

How coarse the beauty of thine eyes!

Pity not this soul of yore.

 Take me to the depths beyond;

for I am darkness, blood, and core of such archaic shore

the elders pronounced home.

Oh, Melancholia!

Thy pardon I desire not.

Come to embrace me under the raven light of March

where crimson flow embosometh the recondite’s keen claws,

where the daemon hath clenched his jaw.

Oh, Melancholia!

Where hast thou gone?

The tears refuse to last,

 and hollow-insenced I bear the scars of this arid, vile land.

Here, I am left to breathe the poison in my veins.

Gods tremble aghast, for clemensy hath flown away

unleashing hell for me to take.

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