The Wolf - Antonio Tonti - Bog

An evanescent maiden, moving in the dark of night,
her hair is red like fire,
ethereal and exquisite,
her bare feet on the moist moss,
she is slowly approaching. The beast is awaiting, silently,
he grabs her, bites her with greediness and avidity,
he sinks his teeth in her flesh,
tearing her thin clothes off. The desirous and frenetic battle
transforms and develops the opponents,
the violence converts into desire,
into passion,
until the end. A. Tonti
When the low, heavy sky weighs like a lid
On the groaning spirit, victim of long ennui,
And from the all-encircling horizon
Spreads over us a day gloomier than the night; C. Baudelaire