In Memory of October 14

What secret lies upon the lips of the sunset,
that its colors are of my wounds and of my pallor?

Would that it had died of burning thirst in the noonday blaze
and vanished in the fury of the flame —

what has it now, that it rests there, dewy-fresh,
in my imaginings and in my mournful heart,

grown intimate with the shade within my eyelids, dozing,
lovesick with my wine and my perfumes!

Gather up, O my hand, the remnants of its radiance —
out of mercy — from the beloved's paths,

and if a longing grows insistent within the ribs,
dig out the heart and bury it, and repent...

Time will grow old, age upon age,
while to the eye it stays eternally dyed.