Charring flames
gnaw at the noblest man's mortal remains,
and teary eyes, robbed of their fire,
mirror the light of the pyre.
Elegies are sung for the fallen god;
even in death, his heart of ice has never thawed.
Stark is the contrast betwixt fresh blood and milky white skin.
He burns in silence, he forgives his slayers' sin.
Art, say the fools, 'tis a work of sick and twisted art.
Simple folk they may be, though right they are to praise this brave hart.
Rest now in peace, cold, restless mind, be a thief to Venus' pawn;
let a phoenix rise from the noblest man's ashes, allow him to be gone.