No fragrance, of soul, of dust, of breath
can vanquish that of hers lingering; sweetest,
a flower of the desert; within me, she liveth
now unto ever, withers midst them she lest.
Nor taste, of wine, of bitter sweet death
can taint that of hers, not on wastelands shore’
my flower of the desert; within me, I knoweth
seeks of me silence, for she loves me no more.
Pardon the ashes of one once violet,
I the shriveled fruit from the odd,
though from birth twas my soul unlit
until undone shalt I burn for a god.
Entreat thee O watchful, I the faded
turn from a parched branch now perched
upon the dangling vine of the braided
lifeless hope midst eternal scorched!
Lest I deign to feign the breathing
lest I pain the promise of grey,
embrace the sun with which is fleeting
I the embers of a Saharan day.
With which I fold my bristling soul
to thee I forth placeth cajoled,
pardon the remnants of one once whole
I the cinder of infernos cold.