I remember her sweet yet sticky scent.
During the darkest round of the night-clock,
my swollen eyes become a forecast,
foreshadowing damp, watery young hours.
I could as well be sitting on a stool
on which 'vae victis' is finely engraved,
like I wickedly did by many nights,
letting the wholesome love matter turn null.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem