Hours, days, weeks rustle after;
the amber blizzard rushes after,
throwing dead leaves onto my face.
Caught in the toils of autumn,
Vampire tastes this brandy wind.
The cedar scent. The lump in the throat.
It tastes like heady salt of your skin.
Elixirless again. Why?
It smells like myrrh of your skin.
One needs your heart tonight.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem