Death by Janis Mikhailovich Rosenthal 1897
And as I stare into the abyss,
Of her onyx eyes,
I hear the words
Fall from her lips -
Like honey; sweet and rotten;
Dripping down my throat
They taste of the motherland,
Of home and comfort
Her cold embrace,
Wrapping around my shoulders
A last goodbye,
Whispered into the air.