Ask not of my name, Madame, for I have none.
In a strange misty past my ghastly ghost forlongs.
A heart once in flames never ended her Autumn.
She repaid his embrace with a forsaking song.
The falling leaves in exile, elegantly dancing.
Frailty is their form, the wind is their guiding.
But Madame, do you know – the leaves they are dying?
Their beauty is nothing save their grave falling.
The love of death, and the death of love,
are but the two wings of a naïve white dove.
Nowhere his home, her presence he belonged.
All dreams inspired became nightmares that haunt.
Ask not of my being, Madame, for I have none.
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To thyself be true my friend