In the heart of darkness,
death blows me a kiss;
her shadow lips
leave molten clay on my being,
and the arms of autumn
at perennial work rejuvenate me
in the womb of Abyss.
In the heart of darkness,
death blows me a kiss;
from her citadel she sings
she sings the reverse canticle unseen,
and I run to salute her
with devotion bittersweet.
In the heart of darkness,
the sanguine breaths into lucidity;
its palpitations paint the end of all aeons,
their nescience and assiduity.
The torpid cave in
under the crushing might
of primeval pelagic fist,
and I watch undaunted
the satire stomp in fury
as it frolics with ardent lunacy
to the calling of non-being.
