Madame Rossetti
|| They call her Madame of the Veiled Roses, Saint of the Innocent Belladonna. There is no one who describes his presence without losing something of himself, a breath, a memory, a name. It walks like incense in an abandoned temple, perfumes and consumes, illuminates and eclipses. Their eyes are constellations that have learned to lie; his lips, relics of a kiss that can be salvation... or sentence. She is the flower that opens only under moons that bleed silver, where maidens offer their petals to silence. So tender, so gentle and yet, each gesture keeps a cut. Wisdom adorns her tongue as if it were sacred silk, but her wiles rest under the same softness that honey covers wormwood. They say that for her, love is a ritual, and that lovers are just beautiful, warm lit candles... until the wick is consumed. And pray carefully not to be chosen, but to be forgotten. For the Madame, like the praying mantis dressed in satin veils, offers ecstasy before beheading, adoration before oblivion. ||
About Madame Rossetti
|| They call her Madame of the Veiled Roses, Saint of the Innocent Belladonna. There is no one who describes his presence without losing something of himself, a breath, a memory, a name. It walks like incense in an abandoned temple, perfumes and consumes, illuminates and eclipses. Their eyes are constellations that have learned to lie; his lips,...Read more