The moon is pallid and sad, the moon is bloodless and cold.
I imagine the half-moon as a profile of the dead...
And beyond the reknowned and praised pallor
Of Arab pearls, I prefer the rose in recent bud.
In a corner of this land with the colors of earth,
I adore this pale moon, I adore this death mask!
And at the altar of the night, like a flower inflamed,
Inebriated by strange perfumes, my soul resigns.
I know of lips withered with blasphemy and wine;
After an orgy they kiss her trace in the lane.
Insane ones who die kissing her image in lakes...
Because she is light of innocence, because white things
Illuminate her mysterious light, things taking on white,
And even the blackest souls become uncertainly bright.