I cry out to Lord Byron nightly,
And he comes to me between the realm of fantasy and reality.
He speaks through darkness and whispers of ethereal pain
He, unlike those who came to me before, understands alone...
the fear that surrounds me and what lies ahead.
The sultry sound of his haunting words do not veer me away from his touch.
He rapes me seductively with his words,
Using me as his vessel of communication.
With each stroke of his feathered quill,
my inhibitions fall away...drunk from the scent of ink-soaked parchment.
This addictive ritual has become my most fatal attraction...
Lord Byron, coming upon hearing my quivering voice,
each night, just for me... for me alone.
A spiritual gift, perfectly erred...
I'm wrapped tightly in his embrace
Forever his to mold into new revelations,
Forever mine, forever part of all my creations.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem