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Where the simplest poems can be found

And from the mellifluous elegy the scented flower blooms

While small birds whistle such bonny anthems

That even thunder, dismayed, would turn silent,

There idylls celebrate the World's fortune

While dancing to the tender voice of bliss

And if there's silence that lasts more than a second

It's 'cause from their high home come the dreams

The whisper of dew casts over everything its mantle

Embroidered with the tears of moon and stars;

The Carites then awaken the world with their chant

And to warm them up Phoebus in his coach departs at last

So much candor, however, hides an insidious gangrene

That disguises with a thousand scents its reek effluvia

And, if by chance from its form it shows even a small part,

It would then immerse the whole world in nightmares dark.

The rotten flesh of its smiling face,

Decomposing into horrific blooms,

Weeps repellent textured tearful pustules

Distressed in the dread of a ravenous laughter.

Behind the golden veil of beauty covertly hidden,

A sinister track hints the guttural gateway,

And the paths of the depths stretch beyond,

Full of vileness, degeneration and evilness.

The radiant dreams lie buried in that place

In catacombs so deep that blend with darkness;

The sweetest chants are desperate laments,

From the ghost of what was emotion once.

The gilded verses of yore over the dunghill shines at last

Overcame by the strong sword's iron terror

That stirs in my hands, like a dark lash,

To take poetry to the darkest doorposts of death!