Beauty (eng)

In mere twilight of your eyes,  

Where light shades off the shape of soul,  

I see the beauty of your lines  

And how they make me feel so foul.  

The sun cannot reach such perfection,  

The moon is blurry in it's veil,  

And I achieved this fine affection  

That summons great and stormy gale.  

The gale inside my pale body,  

Inside my cold and hardened heart,  

Which causes wounds to be so bloody,  

But blood, as wine, so posh and tart.