Estimated reading time — 1 minute
The first account – it was in a warm September
A month still haunted by the saddening winter.
If well I remember, the winds still lashed
The village where, upon dusk, dogs barked
The place where, until dawn, no soul wandered.
That dame, I first saw her in a mere instant
When I uttered, abruptly, my fearful shout of horror:
Blue the irises of the visage whose lips in scarlet
Bled my own bare neck in a silent hot ardour.
The nights gelid were born with that silhouette
Only the naïve moonlight touched the parapet
When under the Victorian garb came that brunette.
It was a beautiful cadaver, of a hair so flourished
Of a woman whose beautiful face, though dead,
Whose vibrant death, almost plainly alive,
On my pulsing blood relentlessly fed.
The last night – it was a pure October of warmth.
Cloudy was my gaze, bohemian of those cold lips
That anaemic turned my heart that burned – of love.
And so the last kiss my lips profoundly touched
And she did not bring death – distinct was my fate.
The death, so vivid, came as a cursed blessing
Which I have, my dead God, accepted so straight.
Ever since then, damned and accursed I observe
The fine thread of the sin which is life post-death.
Even if from the shallow graves, quiet and inert
We surge – us both – after each passing sunset
And even if then death equally us embrace
If our diseased life only lives after twilight
Each October to the village we return for more.
Life more than enough to keep the flesh alive
And death always dead, but that dies no more.
Credit: Fernando N.