PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Surely nothing more pure than thee

Slumbers in Mother Night's embrace;

Surely to-night no fuller Moon

Resembles well thy sweet pale face,

Framed by locks fair and confidence

Of your faithful midnight prayer.



Yet, in a cave by jealous Moon,

Reside three Fates dressed all in white,

All of them daughters of black Night:

Clotho the Spinner loves to spin;

Lachesis draws what has been spun;

Atropos severs life's frail thread

Suspended between gloom and gloom.



Whose beck and call Fates might answer

Is often hotly contended;

But rest assured, Antonia,

While in your precious innocence

Rest may so easily obtain.

For, restless in his bestained bed,

Ambrosio twists and turns with

Lust and guilt against his poor vows.



Ambrosio, Ambrosio,

Whom conscience has torn asunder.

Lies concealed in his monkish cell;

But not from mannish Matilda,

Demonessa, urging him on,

Nor from his holy Deity,

Counseling virtuous restraint.

Hence Aye and Nay dance in tandem

Until vile incestuous rape

And foul murders are committed

And duly punished by Devil

Doing God's will as commissioned.



Then, only then shalt thou molder

As thy mother Elvira molds

Whilst Ambrosio, cast  into

The chasm of hopeless despair,

Impaled upon the hellish rocks

So far below the gaze of God,

Slowly fulfills his Agony.