Oh Helena, what be it that Me see in Thy Countenance?

Is it some banished fear or reciprocity from years yore?

Or the doubt to face recklessly the years henceforth?

In Thee, Thy Devoted hath found harbor,

For the wandering Schiff midst this tumultuous and abysmal meer.

Thou, My Beloved Helena, hast called towards Thee Mine Spirit.

It climeth the tallest pinnacle, this Waxing Giant,

Und so It shall yawp to Heavens and shake the earths.

And yawp and yawp and yawp It shall!

For betwixt Thy bosom, Mine Spirit alights like a centenarian falcon.

He spots, Oh Helena, soaring to the clouds onuppan,

Naught but clustered dreams of Man’s imagination.

Within reach but forever out of grasp.

He take flight through and through,

For His merry hour remains abstained from Thy heart.

Oh dearest Helena, wo bist du?

Mine hand grows wet from Thy eyes abundant bounty.

Command away, this foul ghastly image of absinthe.

Hemlock not be of Thy dignity!

For Thy Devoted shall sip each of Death’s sup before Thee.

To My Helena, this proclamation of heart be felt,

That Thy Soul may findet doth’s solitude.

Nay e’er a week hast Thou driven o’er Mine grave.

Oh such cruel Fate to cometh in such despair,

For Mine Helena can truly prosper if only it’s abhorrence be dashed!