The Executioner’s Tenderness

Beauty is a disease that consumes you from within,
Its petals are black – like visions of the night.
Its scent is sweet, like a sin that never slept,
And the honey of its lips is a deadly, intoxicating illusion.

Every night it comes, like a friend and a criminal.
With the tenderness of an executioner – it whispers that it is innocent.
And the touch is like an eclipse of the sun,
Which heals you, but only for a moment.

Its love is like a curse from heaven,
Like an angel with a knife who knows no pity.
You beg it to leave, but you hear an echo:
“I am leaving – but I will remain in you forever.”

And you realize there is no escape,
For the flower in your chest grows without roots.
You wear it like the seal of a secret –
That wound of love which blooms with blood.

Oh, Soul, do not weep, do not ask for salvation.
You have been chosen by it, either to wither or to grow,
Into a world where heaven and vice – make no difference.
Where the flower and the knife – are one and the same in a dream.