Such weary roses press against my wounds
With blossomed wings and eerie smell of blood,
Look at him rot, the lamb of God,
As sad as in her agony,the bride defies the groom,

Far walk the windy steps of time,
Shallow the gloom from which her throat devoured
And day by day,hour by hour,
Slept rusted flesh in ivory of wine

And poison did her mind accuse,
For drink she did the purest blood
And bath by bath she took in virgin’s death,
Rejoicing at the mirror of her muse.