Not to drink that kind nectar from your lips 
neither breathe from your breath eternal life 
nor to sleep in your arms another night 
It's to die, not to be, have never been...

To watch your sweet tongue plunging bold, in fire
at the Queen's mouth request in those your dreams
That she in your sleep surrenders with wild screams
and both awakes fulfilled and in desire...

I'll rather be a bird in a hawk's beak
an injured doe, hurt, doomed to cease to exist
a speckle in the dimmest, faintest night

A crazy mare, a ghost, a bitch, a freak
a little rock still turned to tiny grist
I'd rather die to be this river's bride!