Death is in the flower's heart – don't
Ever cry for life of any petal
Death in purple ink of weary pens: the
Written yearnings on her scented paper
Death is laughing in my head; the
Beating heart disclosing from a sleeve
Death ignores the plight of any purity – He
Doesn't care or seem to be aware
Of what the dewy eye desires, for
Death beckoned: 'Embrace the jar! '
And yes, I shall – for Death of course.
No other woman can open up these chains
And greet me with a kiss, so
Death became my bliss.
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