She's pale like death or moonstars...
I wonder if she was born of dark or light?
They call her Winter...
Becuase her kiss will be your last.
And I survived and tasted another.
'Stupid girl, ' she snarled. 'I am Absinthe.'
I staggered back, dead inside,
Reeling from the reality of your
And I wonder...
Will I ever be sane without my absinthe?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.