The atmosphere was stained with the pleasant strings of violin,
The aroma of her perfume, melodies intertwining with her mellifluous euphony,
Her voluptuous moonlit almonds peering into the depths of my dreams,
Sweet like summer breeze, my beauty,
Within my dreams, I see her, her silhouette glimmering between rivers,
Betwixt the juniper leaves, the milky hues of her seems so ravishing,
And yet despite my golden eyes, my aureate wreaths, embracing her body towards me,
Her presence seems far away . . .
. . . and the hissing blaze crept nearer.
And soon . . . she’s gone, like always, yet not really, a silhouette of feminine grace now bleeding,
In my arms beneath the lanterns gaze, the flames flickered out of her pallid face,
A face deader than my own heart, yet nevertheless, I caressed her, short and sweet,
As I savor, my lost love, as the smoke ricochets in the air, and bullet holes I shall wear,
Through the centuries of my nonexistent future, two peasants wrapped to one another,
One limp with scarlet on her sweater, torn apart by the date of her demise, and I,
Her ill-fate suitor, clutched away from the thundering sirens and screeches and noises and
Shrieks and hisses and gunshots and shouts and foreign voices stabbing
Her heart out . . . those gits, they’ve done it now . . . stripped my home right to the ground,
My home, both my town and love . . . now gone.