There was once, a rose in my garden of love,
Which fought against the tempestuous storm.
Its waning fragrance–a mare’s tail cloud,
Hung from the arms of the new moon,
Like the phantom skin of the discarded old orb.
Now it lies in the pages of my book:
Withered, and diminished;
Languished to the colours of clart;
Feeding on the drops of crystal blood,
From the niches of my sodden eyelashes.