You are aloft, evil, elegant and gloomy Like a snow leopard, like a crescent moon My witch, my Mona Lisa In your melancholy and mysterious eyes I'm willing to be gracefully cut by your knife I'm willing to turn into a pile of ash Pillowing the green hills and rivers alone Listening to your wordless repent Plum, I'll stand in the hell or heaven To see how you draw back the cutting edge of your red lips
No, in the centre of the storm of time I, a free poet In the instant of falling, will die without a burial place If I refuse to rise
