In the tragedy, I will display for Tilia

my stanzas in abundant clusters;

each melodious fruit will bleed,

like a funereal sun, doleful wines.

Tilia will hold the cross

that in the final hour will be of light!

In the tragedy, I will capture for Tilia

the drop of uproar that is on my lips;

and the lip, tightening for the kiss,

will break into a hundred holy petals.

Tilia will hold the dagger,

the floricidal and auroral dagger!

Now in shadow, heroine, virgin and martyr,

you will feel Life under your soles;

while, praying my stanzas, you hold vigil over

my head, like a Host in blood ink!

And you will drink my blood,

like a virus, from a lily, voraciously!