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Vanité Triomphante
My Dying Bride
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I often hunt you in my dreams,
But your wicked claw awaits me,
Aboard this snow-lit island,
Veins like tortured winter trees,
'Tis the service of my hand,
That silence climbs upon thee.
You are sweet and fine to listen to!
Long tresses about her neck, does the soprano sing your?!
Yet much is false.
This mighty evening,
I've seen no face.
This is crushing me.
My quill it aches.
And old ships die like swans,
Against thy frozen icy shore,
Pass your dying body,
I leave you, in your thought.