Si belle, she goes, dancing, n’ passing, n’ staring in frolic ways,
reminds me of flowers, of yellows n’ greens … of better days.
Her eyes, faroles, of juvenile candor, tenderness n’ grave lisome,
floating dreams, attentive, chimeric in beauty, neglecting my own.
With hairs as savage flames, in a danse macabre, my succubine!
Tempest of time past, tempest of what is, of what’s never been.
Subtle lips, of great allure, saying-yet-still-not, the momentous word,
for being myself bearer, I’d retrieve for thee, the keys n’ steal the sword.
Oh! oblique visage! visage of thousand nights n’ thousand fevers!
Alone, my seductress, you are my esclavage and also my deliver.