Alone with her loneliness, she'd placed
In a darkened segmented basement:
Under her eyelids her impassionate prey.
Was had she not grown quite nauseate
Of being a moth beneath iron grates:
She'd long given up on bat-like wings.
But for her insular lusts of blood l tasted.
She'd have 'Love' stoppered affordably bottled.
Poured from the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
There her personifications of a nude fresco
Lecherously, joining us in this vampirism:
Would buttress against us her kissing.
Sleepovers in a velvet casket of stars
With her needs ancient as a pagan forest.
That longs for the starlight's faucet fix.
So her emotionalism's tap' runneth over
As she reaches up from her foundation's root:
Night butterflies fly-out: This daylights love
This daylights-newly, amalgamated lover.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem