Our last dance, our curtain call. Beloved. Seraphic. Obscene.
In the land of yellow bile, underneath its stygian Sun’s gaze,
there dwells a courtesan dressed velveteen.
Her smile and her voice is rare honey
and I have drowned a thousand nights under its amber.
How melodious and saccharine,
her words, like wax, to seal the wounds of day.
Each syllable did melt upon her elegant lips,
ambrosial, a balm upon the very soul.
In the land of ivory phlegm within the shadow of its scorned King,
there dwells a courtesan wrapped tight in finery.
Her face carved as if by Važjuma itself, a mask of porcelain,
visage hewn from pale white, causing awe in all.
When she looked upon my blemished body — oh, how could one be perfect beside her?
Ruby specks glimmering with that odium.
All the dancing and singing lights in the night could have died out;
still her gaze would have outshone the dark.
In the land of sick black beneath the court palaces' towering spires,
there dwells a courtesan, web-spinning endlessly.
Her laughter, sacrament poured from crimson chalice,
aqua vitae distilled to slay the senses.
How piteous must I be, to believe in her sanctity.
How mad to think that elixir was for mine own cup.
Love, a mercurial drought, too puissant to ignore;
a passive figure I would be no longer.
In the land of spilt blood, in the theatre of the blind and deaf,
there dwells a courtesan, her threads burning.
A performance like no other, you simply must attend,
the words poured from every mouth on the street.
Our last dance, our curtain call. Beloved. Seraphic. Obscene.
Applause thundered through my veins; midnight came too soon.
A faint kiss of bitter almonds, that burning leer one final time
before I plunged my devotion deep into her throat.
In the land of humour most foul, trapped in the masks that never fall,
there dwells a courtesan no longer and a fool made whole.
I did right by her. I was simply not enough, too mortal for her tastes;
for still even her divine flesh pierced remains deathless.
How they so enjoyed our performance, those ravenous crowds,
sanguine ecstasy served à la carte upon their tongues.
Now I dance alone, my limbs a feast in motion,
all the while I feed the stage with what remains of me.
May the wench burn as I act the fool, and when I join her;
oh, what wondrous delights we shall make.