In you, I see the heroines of'
Shakespeare's tragedies.
You, unhappy lady, were
never saved by anybody.
You have grown tired of repeating
the familiar words of love !
An iron ring on a bloodless hand
is more expressive.
I love you - like a storm burst
overhead - I must confess it;
all the more fiercely because you burn
and bite, and most of all
because our secret lives take
very different paths:
seduction and dark fate
are your inspiration.
To you, my aquiline demon,
I apologise,
In a flash -
as if over a coffin - I realise
it was always too late to save you !
Even as I tremble - it may be
I am dreaming - there
remains one enchanting irony:
for you - are not he.
Beneath this caressing, plush blanket
I call up yesterday's dream.
What was it ?
Whose was the victory ?
Who was defeated ?
Do you understand ?
I do not think so...
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