I come not to conquer your body tonight, O creature In whom the sins of a nation stream, nor under The cureless tedium which my kisses pour To burrow a sad tempest in your impure hair: I ask of your bed the deep sleep with no dreams Flitting under unknown drapes of remorse Which you, after your dark deceits, can enjoy, You who know more about oblivion than a corpse: For gnawing at my ingrained morality, Vice Has marked its sterility in me as in you; But while there exists in your breast of stone A heart which the tooth of no crime can wound, Haunted by my shroud I flee, wan, undone, In terror of dying while sleeping alone. |