Plus triste que la pierre, la fleur du mal.
Oh rage ! Au vent, poussières du parfum infernal.
Aime-moi, hais-moi sorcière ! Oh, fleur fatale !
Que tes épines déchirent ma chair. Que brûle leur idéal...
Like a worm eating a rose, like a black butterfly
Who draws the precious liquor, the essence of the real.
Like a man who never cries, like a woman who never kills,
The incarnate melancholy has enthroned all my being.
She had the darkest smile but tears in her eyes.
Delighted in sadness...Sad in happiness.
The egoistic despair she felt,
The tragical irony I saw in her soul.
Enslaved by her fate, she knew her end.
My veins are chains that rip my heart.
All joy has gone away.
Even the snake of suffering is crying.
Reality has become chimera.
Good and evil have no more sense.
Black and white are no longer opposed,
To become one. I am alone, all alone.
Oh ! Funeral ballerina ! Your dance macabre is complete.
Oh ! Dark dove ! Your have taken your majestic flight.
I am lost in an ocean of bitterness.
I am drowning.
Eaten by the creatures of regrets.
I only feel apathy...Oh ! Mighty apathy...
I stand motionless in the moist of my sorrow.
I remember her cold carcass, when she was not a carrion anymore.
The scythe has cut the roots of my tortured mind.
I fall irresistibly toward my destiny.
Her outstreched hand getting out the abyss grips my flesh and my soul.
Her palms become blades that brings the shadows.
The angel cries become tears of blood.
The demon's laughters become icy moans. A raven is born... A star starts to shine...
My veins open, a flower wills...I close my eyes and see...