How many times I have nearly surrendered
To the blade’s gleaming seduction,
To the turn of blood flowing unwarmed,
No longer concealed by the lustrous flesh,
That skin so pallid, casting out a sheen by the sun.
White as a bleached handkerchief,
The one that is used to seal off the wound,
To hold back the torment and to stagger the dolore.
No longer a virgin anymore,
That title now has been lost,
The siren’s beckoning has won,
Here now she does indeed triumph,
Her trail of red tears not likely to ever be undone.