to Carmô Senna
For this time of true love,
I feel static,
beyond the hell's fire,
of madness,
beyond the great cold
of Artic
By the darkest ways of moon,
feeling far the poor love of whom,
I fell down softly,
from the nightmare's gloom,
losing your voice in oblivion,
going myself to doom.
And for this hearth ache, I write,
spending in words all my bright,
leaving my pureness,
my sorrow,
Oh! I might!
reminding your beauty,
your love,
my own light.
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