No sooner arrives this reflective letter,
by the playful breeze of the wintry airs,
by a theme on Scriabin my sensuous ardour,
entwining and fondling my lover’s tears.
Her voice summons a past abandoned,
voluptuous songs from a greyed limbo;
a waltzing devil in the garden of heaven,
a page reminiscent of his nameless foe.
No souls were cast from his tender embrace,
how can he forget his prophetical easel?
No doubt an orbit marks a familiar trace,
he stood long alone beyond good and evil.
Vexed by my unworldly being,
how frail are the grounds on which I stand.
Yet are they not save my dispersed ink?
With a glass of ruby I dream in the sand.
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