I arrived before, and I will jump over the moon and place this tender lullaby in your cradle: A winter morning, a trembling dream, that sheds the warmth and cold from your skin, that laughter is good, and crying is bad, that crying is aid, my onion child. Don’t cry and dream.

I will hang almost a window in your room, and there will be no tomorrow to wake the light. From my chest on your newborn skin, with all right, love pours out. My layered lullaby, my drooling baby, of fulfilled laughs, don’t cry and dream.

And in the frozen night, of broken harps, I look at you and lose myself, my frost rose. Your skin is a verse that the ice caresses, a scream in the wind, a beginning that begins. The notes of blood, my voice tears, in remote shadows the moon clings.

I shudder completely at your whiteness, my love is a north wind that hurts and murmurs. That dies and sings it like a holy lullaby. Don’t die tomorrow, I want you in the present. Under a broken sky, of black ashes, I lift you in my arms, my starry crypt.

The shadows dance, their claws surround me, your breath is fog, my soul shatters. From tombs the chant, a requiem trembles, weaving in my weeping an eternal shroud. The blood in my veins is ink and ice, I name you in the sorrow, my specter in the wind. Don’t cry and dream.

And the ether whispers your name in its flame, an echo that embraces the branchless night. Your being fades in golden mists, my voice summons you from veiled spheres. The stars bend, their light pierces me, I steal you from death with a mischievous hand. Don’t cry and dream.