The tragically beautiful—called by the fearful: femme fatale,
Lives in the eye of love’s storm, calm, away from the strife
She causes, possessing the inner peace of the cruelly beautiful,
Bred to be a mistress, not a friend or a wife.
She may say she is not, but everyone can tell
Beauty made in heaven from beauty made in hell.
The tragically beautiful—loved by the passionate, one and all,
Checks the passion that lives in her soul,
She, the beautiful, immune to the cruelly beautiful,
Is cold, while the fire of her lover’s desire rages out of control.
She may say she is not, but everyone can tell
Beauty made in heaven from beauty made in hell.
She’s tabula rasa; does not write, but is written,
Has no need for depiction, analysis, or signs,
She is their perfection: her thoughts bite; she is never bitten.
She belongs to the sensual: flowers, animals, oceans, wines;
When she moves among the sensual, she is diminished for a spell;
She becomes a landscape: moonlight undulating on the ocean’s swell.
She will pet the small animals; she will seem gentle.
She will emit animal charm exceedingly well;
But do not be fooled, for everyone can tell
Beauty made in heaven from beauty made in hell.
The poet strives for beauty more beautiful than her own,
And he may have lips that she loves to kiss,
But the poet—tragic poet!—cannot make her continually moan
For him. She does not want him all the time. And all he wants is this.
