A bell am I, so is the brittle frame
For now when struck but sounds a sinking knell
Tis her, the hammer, without thought or aim
Surely Loneliness' chill fears Hell's thick flame
Though frigid I am, the thoughts naught but dwell
On she who absorbs most ecstatic praise
Then who is the beast and who is the maze?
If she, truly beast, built on shapeless whim?
A whisp, darkling, or ephemeral glaze
Strange that I pass through into futures grim
The tomb or the tumor, which one is worse
Be Ruin Herself, or Ruin's pale curse?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem