The Sweet Perfume of Perdition

Braiding her dark hair with pallid fingers
The crackling gramophone of Puccini
The indelible scent of sorrow lingers:
The sweet perfume of perdition.

An artificial sadness, is what the opera is
Mourning for a false love, a beautiful lie
And her, like a butterfly in a chrysalis
Enjoying the sweet perfume of perdition.

The abysmal night, like a blanket of darkness
Un bel dì, vedremo levarsi un fil di fumo...
O heavens, what shall she do with such moroseness?
With such a sweet perfume of perdition?

A walk in the oak-and-lily, dawn-lit forest
With vague intent, like Ophelia was she
Near-emaciated, mad, and devoid of rest
The air rich with the sweet perfume of perdition.

No human foot save hers tread there
No one but her enjoyed the rushing rivers
She was alone, flowers in her loose, dark hair
Scented with the sweet perfume of perdition.

She, like a strangely lovely banshee, hated by Fate
Apple blossoms falling from flowering trees
The scents of daisies, brown sugar, and hate:
The sweet perfume of perdition.

Another wintry breeze spirited past
The cruel touch of ice to the bone
December's frost would unkindly last
As long as the sweet perfume of perdition.

Then, our wandering maiden came
To a rushing, beautiful, ice-water river
The croaking of bullfrogs, a chorus always the same
Reminiscent of the sweet perfume of perdition.

Her bony hands were frostbit by its freezing waters.
But she noticed the lily-pads floating there, in full blossom
Her bitter tears fell on these ephemeral flowers
And hers was the sweet perfume of perdition.