Yo soy la ramera de Charles Baudelaire, en tiempo perdidos
Yo fui la morisca azulada de enjoyados senos, de negrísimas pupilas y nocturnos cabellos.
Yo de ancha cadera, de pelvis alada, embriagué a mi amo, con poses de exquisito placer.
Estas mis carnes, hacer pecar al ser más puro, dan locura al cuerdo y embrujan al ciego
Porque yo soy a quien ha escrito más de mil versos en todas sus noches, durante todas su lunas y aúnque descanze en la helada tumba, aún siente este calor de mis labios morados.
HOLA!!!!!!!!!
QUE TAL COMO ESTA ESPERO QUE BIEN AH GRX POR ASEPTARME LA SOLICITUD DEL HI5 AMIGA PS ESPERO PASE AMI HI5 OK BUENO SU HI5 ESTA PERBERSO OK BUENO ADIIOS K PASEEE UN OSCURO DIA
A hint of lust shines within her eyes,
and a touch of crimson stains her lips.
There is sorrow heard in every cry
and tenderness felt in every kiss.
The moonlight reflecting off her pale skin,
the innocence shown in her angelic smile:
these things make her seem mortal within,
but the deception can last only a while.
Outside she looks like God's creation.
Inside lies a black heart without a soul.
The truth reveals this monster of Satan
is an empty vessel seeking to be whole.
This queen of darkness hides her secret;
men fall prey to her dire needs
because of her beauty they show no regret,
and become that on which she feeds.
She drinks to quench the thirst inside her.
She drinks to fill the gaping hole within,
but she doesn't realize the void growing bigger
for the demon inside feasts on this sin.
Once, sickness infected; choking her life,
and she desired immortality.
Wanting a second chance, wanting to strive,
she had lost track of truth and reality.
A deal with the devil taking the cancer away,
yet only growing much sicker than before.
Immortality by a vampire – the only way
to get what she was looking for.
Now there's no way back; no soul to trade.
Cursed to suffer with every life taken
she must 'live this life' she has made,
and be left alone, dead, and forsaken.
Crying, screaming, and praying to God,
wishing not to see so many men killed,
she must walk the path where she hath trod
treading through the blood of innocent spilled.
She has become Death, she has no choice.
She is not allowed to be heard,
and cannot speak without a voice.
There is nothing behind her every word.
Forced to suffer this eternal curse,
she lurks in the night as a creature unwhole.
The pain will never cease to hurt;
no amount of blood will ever pay the toll.
So she wanders on this Earth all alone
cursed as immortal, beautiful, empty and old.
An open wound never to be sewn;
a meaningless existence with a heart so cold.
Men fall down and lose their own breath,
fading away only because of this:
She is the reaper, the bringer of Death,
and her scythe is the vampire's kiss.
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