Love, no longer do you return to my dead eyes;

and how my idealistic heart weeps for you.

All my chalices openly await

your autumnal Hosts and dawn wines.

Love, cross divine, water my deserts

with your astral blood that dreams and that cries.

Love, no longer do you return to my dead eyes

that dread and long for your dawn tears.

Love, I do not desire you when you are distant

raffled off in the make-up of a tipsy bacchante,

or in the weak and pug-nosed features of a woman.

Love, come without flesh, from an astonishing ichor,

so that I, in the manner of God, may be a man

who loves and begets without sensual pleasure!