At Midnight

My blood has been restored,

To its numinous swaying;

In my bedroom,

I hear a nymph's whisper,

Succumbing,

Before my thinness;

And there isn't any stone,

Getting into my shoe,

To make me walk lamely,

Towards an abandoned house;

A mouth tastes a hieroglyphic elixir,

In which the Pontifex writes his prophecy,

To pink kores,

And the Moon bathes herself,

In such a blue oil;

The body has been made,

To express a God's delights,

In which my ears draw,

A violet warmth,

To reflect my anima's words;

How much longer will we still crash our faces,

Into a drying lake? .-

For denying our inner song is,

Like scratching off a golden coin.