O pain, o death, dear friends of the living
My still lips have gained delight o'er your lost
My pale face now dance' in glare to your reigns end
I've sought refuge in a pyre you can't reach
A ribboned tent that no cold hand can find.
A pyre richly engraved with my all earthly deeds.
You slave of fate have no hold on me ev'more
Your charms and torment will not in me ev' dwell.
For this sepulchre is far more dwelling -
than earth's most turbulent womb.
Where my rotten repose will be-
the mother of blooming rosebuds
My sins are saints as my garment white
Beams to graze my bier with soft embrace-
not with the worms sickle keen shall they feast my skin
O death, o pain, have sought an abode with warmer embrace
For I have left earth to darkness and to you
In this I share delight that you have no share in my core.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem