The death of Love Herself is in fact the first part of the poem The Seer. This is the poem that starts the story of the Seer, of the poetry itself.
The death of Love Herself
A white night gown was all she was to ware,
Her beauty still mirror the heaven’s best,
Her heart was wandering somewhere.
But on the altar her body from now will rest.
Eternity will have to be enough,
No work to do, this is their hell,
This is the pit where children have no laugh.
The time has come, and now Rome has fell.
No need now for holophrase,
The curtain soon will fall for good,
It is the final phase.
The earth itself will stop in place it stood.
And now the time itself has ended,
The worthy shall now eat the dirt,
A princess with the dead descended.
The meagre is inheriting the earth.
The underworld revolting to the living,
The breaking of the sky and thunders,
The wake ones engaging in deceiving.
The poetry and art now wanders.
Nepenthe does not rise now anymore,
Now Odysseus rise to take the sword,
Nepenthe has no power at the Seer’s door.
To help his pain or take away his word.
In underworld his eyes are tied,
A knot to take away his gaze,
His death a walk is not a ride.
But in within himself he blaze.
His heart is now a coal of fury,
He sword to pay out his debt,
The Seer would not be the jury.
For those who ever have misstepped.
He knows that but his pride is high,
A friend is not an enemy,
Foreseen his pain and couldn’t save him though.
A sacrifice that must have had to be.
Sophia was herself a plein de grace,
Her sacrifice will now end the world,
The spring is blooming full of grass.
The Seer is rising now his sword.
The Hyacinths Woman, of long is gone she too,
But the princess waiting to be buried,
Madame Sosostris casting the cards on who.
The Seer to end his job is hurried.
It’s summer now, the earth is scorching torrid,
The deeds are walking all in plastic,
The scene is set but really horrid.
The dancing naked women cry fantastic.
We are the heirs of the world, they cry in the blazing sun,
There is the wolfs that are feeding, no corp is buried,
The Seer looks at them, now you are all done.
The woman on her bloody throne was not ever married.
The blade his finest slashing through the roaring crowds,
So there is no forgiveness to be given to the guilty one,
The corpses shall walk blinded to the lonely lads.
The Seer has has just started, yeah, he just begun.
His sword is now ready to give the rightful punishment,
All the so called poets and artists are the to be seen,
There is no time now for any them to repent.
But a forgiven shall not be none who’ve sinned.
In fact he started long ago, when her blood was still warm,
He begged gods for long twelve nights for light to come back,
But above him far away in the sky he felt the crushing storm.
But the darkness grew so thick around him that was pitch-black.
His heart was there no more they took his love away,
No one cared for his pain, the people were so happy,
He swore to reciprocate, to pay them back one day.
The ignorance is no excuse, their poetry is crappy.
So he let them feel good for a time,
Ignorance grew thick like a blanket,
The truth of poetry was now lack on rhyme.
But you can now purchase the lie in the market.
The people dwell today and taste the tasteless sound,
Of callow words that carry no satisfying meaning,
Of words where dwell no harmony, nothing profound.
They laugh but inside they’re crying cuz they are self-deceiving.
The torment has begun, their lasting days are numbered,
The talentless one shall now fall from his lying throne,
The Waste Lands in The Cantos have the world away slumbered.
Their so called rhythm or music so long have lost their tone.
If ever those writings have had any reason to exist,
To be written it would have never been one of it,
But The Faux-Poet, the most revered of them persists.
With His lies corrupting minds everyday bit by bit.
The artists are begging at the market corners,
Their hungry for their shameless share of dividends,
Their selling poisoning air to the money donors.
But this is just the beginning of all their torments.
Their sin will never be forgotten,
And none of them shall ever be forgiven,
Their corpse is already very rotten.
The blackest flag from now shall be arisen.
The sinners from now shall leave the earth,
The judgement day is long upon them all,
Every single one been weigh was found no worth.
So now all the poetry will have to fall.
The dead from now shall never come again to life,
No saviour shall be given to the man again,
No rapture shall send them to haven while God’s strife.
The judgement took already place, He found them all to blame.
A thousand years of hell is given now to them,
They will wander from now with no aim,
Their poetry have in fact not a single gem.
Every single verse sounds in fact the same.
April is long gone and the Hyacinths Lady is singing,
Her song is lovely but soon to be stopped by the Red One,
Her pain is the siren’s last call to the ones that are still believing.
Then the Judgement upon the entire world has been done.
The winter is coming and the storm is here,
The truth shall now reveal itself to the crowds,
The end for the many of these artists is near.
No one is taking them in haven to the clouds.
Everyone is going to their respective tomb,
Their souls will go forever to the damning hell,
All these talentless artists have there a room.
Or better said a very damning cell.
Nepenthe has no power from now on,
A world in awful pain has to suffer,
A prison its people are in, cuz they con.
The world into the morbid laugh of laugher.
It’s done, the Seer says taking his gaze away,
But Odysseus has to say something, intervene,
Sophia has to be raised, brother, till the end of day.
The virgin’s sacrifice sang by the lost siren.
The Nymph that has never lost her faith,
Her song is full of love and real bless,
The Seer looks back and there she was straight.
In her locked tower where she locked herself.
Tradition? He asks looking at his brothers in arms,
A Fire Sermon of which the words are so lost,
The skeleton of a shadow that in a museum that bans.
Is harming my wife after death the most.
The Game of Chess has been lost three years later,
A Parallax that came to change the rules and contest,
A Poet-Fool that could not defend his poem any better.
The Virgin is just a Nymph, like are indeed the rest.
She lost herself in her own thoughts, just a beautiful face,
The Poet-Fool proved to be above that fight,
The Nymph was out of his league, a pastiche in a race.
Her verses are themselves just the force of a blight.