My muse sad
Vagos preludes. In the splendid night Pearl
His voice quiets a fountain
celestial breezes hang their fifes
In the foliage. The gray heads
Of the owls lurking.
The flowers open, as if surprised.
ivory swans necks tend
pale in the gaps. Selene
looks blue. Fronds
Tremble ... and everything! to silence, hush ...
She wanders with her sad mouth
And the great mystery of amber eyes,
Through the night, into oblivion,
As a fugitive and white star.
Like a dethroned queen of beautiful exotic
rare gestures and words.
Horizons violated their dark circles inside her eyes two stars of amber
open is wet and weary and sad
As light wounds that weep.
living is a pain and do not expect,
is a gray dawn rises
The large bed of shadows of the night, Tired
and without glory, without cravings
And their songs are sad tale
Jewelry of tears ...
Lit Cords
are fibers of souls .- Bitter Blood
vineyards, noble vineyards
regal beauty in glasses, pour
At the hands of ivory, carved lips
As emblems of a race magna. Princes
rare
the Dream! They have seen her standing
languid head
And they've seen him laugh, because he saw
vibrates and expands aristocracies flower!
And his pure soul like fire
Like a star shining in his eyes of amber
But just a glance, a touch of sorrow, perhaps
The echo of a voice profane
And the clean white soul concentrated
As a flower of light that is close!
My sad muse
Murmuring preludes. On this resplendent night
Her pearled voice quiets a fountain.
The breezes hang their celestial fifes
In the foliage. The gray heads
Of the owls keep watch.
Flowers open themselves, as if surprised.
Ivory swans extend their necks
In the pallid lakes.
Selene watches from the blue. Fronds
Tremble...and everything! Even the silence, quiets.
She wanders with her sad mouth
And the grand mystery of amber eyes,
Across the night, toward forgetfulness
Like a star, fugitive and white.
Like a dethroned exotic queen
With comely gestures and rare utterings.
Her undereyes are violated horizons
And her irises–two stars of amber–
Open wet and weary and sad
Like ulcers of light that weep.
She is a grief which thrives and does not hope,
She is a gray aurora rising
From the shadowy bed of night,
Exhausted, without splendor, without anxiousness.
And her songs are like dolorous fairies
Jeweled in teardrops...
The strings of lyres
Are the souls' fibers.–
The blood of bitter vineyards, noble vineyards,
In goblets of regal beauty, rises
To her marble hands, to lips carved
Like the blazon of a great lineage.
Strange Princes of Fantasy! They
Have seen her languid head, once erect,
Heard And her laugh, her eyes for
Tremble with the flower of aristocracy! And her soul
clean as fire, like a star, In Those
Burns Pupils of amber.
But with a mere glance, scarcely an intimacy,
Perhaps the echo of a profane voice,
This white and pristine soul Shrinks
Like a luminous flower, folding herself up!
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