When deep down you sleep, my Dark Beauty,
from a black marble tomb built;
and just have you by bed or lair
a rainy vault and a deep pit.
When you press the slab your trembling flesh
and your flanks folded with laid out charm,
the beating and wishing your chest prevent you,
and at your feet flee your hazardous career.
The Tomb, confidant of my infinite dream,
(because the Tomb will always understand the Poet)
in those long nights when sleep is forbidden,
He will tell you: "What use is it, indiscreet courtesan,
not having known what the Dead cry? "
And the worm will gnaw your flesh,
as a Remorse.
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