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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2006-03-14 | | Înscris în bibliotecă de Ionescu Bogdan
Open your closed eyelid,
Brushed by a virginal dream. I am the spectre of a rose That you wore last night to the ball. You took me still pearled With the silver tears of the watering can, And about the starry fest You carried me all evening. You who were the cause of my death: Powerless to chase it away Each night my rose~colored spectre Will dance at your bedside. But fear nothing: I require Neither Mass nor De Profundis. This fragile perfume is my soul And I come from paradise. My lot was to be envied: And to have so lovely a fate More than one would have given his life; For on your breast is my tomb And on the alabaster where I rest A poet, with a kiss, Has written: "Here lies a rose To make all the kings jealous."
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