Transfiguration

Nothing in this world

Can be as immaculate and pure

As the love of us Cold Ones for the dead.

Our love lives only in those fleeting moments

Of recollection

Memories we're fearing to forget.

Our love knows neither kiss nor touch,

We are embracing dust, air or ourselves

When visualizing what we've lost.

Awoken by a sound or scent,

Some visions call sad phantoms, floating,

Wrapped in fading colours our lament.

And then there is the all-devouring dread:

"some day I might not bring him back...,

When my feeble mind can't help but lose

The contours of his face".

Lost forever, lone and sad,

Gone forever to the dead...

So far beyond the barriers of the opposite space.

Yet, alas, despite it all

Walking through these deserted halls

It's easy, still, to love the dead

It's easier to love the dead.