“Why do you strive against your own salvation to find death in love?”
Pseudo-Titus
Some do not want to be saved,
But to feel the night on their skins,
And the cowled moon,
Telling the rosary of the blood.
You may know us by our wounds:
Pain, the mason’s mark,
Seals our hearts’ Etruscan tombs.
So let wry flautists serenade
The symposiasts of the afterlife,
Reclining on scarlet couches
In the cypresses’ dark shade.
Husband will be laid with wife,
Alabaster mummies etched
True to the love they embodied,
The dance they dared in life.
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