vanité triomphante

My Dying Bride

I often hunt you in my dreams,
But your wicked claw awaits me,
Aboard this snow-lit island,
Veins like tortured winter trees,
tis the service of my hand,
That silence climbs upon thee.

You are sweet and fine to listen to !
Long tresses about your neck,
Yet much is false.
This mighty evening,
I ve seen no face.
This is crushing me.
My quill it aches.

And old ships die like swans,
Against our frozen icy shore,
Pass your dying body,
I leave you in your thoughts

Trees dance and fail
Tell them I came
My beauty pale
Was yours the same?

Viens, il est temps de partir
Je vais regretter ta haine
Ta vanité triomphante
Fera sa révérence

I laid them in books
Just your heart and mine
For lovers to read
The lonely to pine

Through my broken skin
And cherry tree blood
The real world falls in
A false life of love