You, my love, bring me sadness 

but not the one that wets eyes.

You with your melancholy scent

reawaken the poetry 

of my blasphemous dreams.

I, wanderer of the night, seek your embrace,

the grey reverb of the past enfolds

blows on the embers of my disappeared hope.

My dear absinthe flower,

I want to become your best sin 

I want to lance my skin on your thorns

and suck the poison of your limbs.

Oh you beast of carnal craving, 

spirit of perturbing passion,

you restrain me in your prison of attraction 

and you refuse to use this despised guy.

Frightened is the heart of lover

so that it halts in apparent death.

In this death I find myself praying 

and if of God the will is against 

I wish then for the hell fire,

burning on hearth 

for the desperate thirst of you.