Last words. Scent reminders

I first saw the image of Nancy Cunard in my "In Vogue, Sixty Years of Celebrities and Fashon from British Vogue." book that "the Greek" gave to me. I love the caption that read: "She rimmed er eyes with kohl and wore African bangles to the elbows."
Put that on my tombstone, won't you?

I just recieved a vintage bottle of nuit de noel. The sent is heavier, thicker and more golden than the new bottle I ordered after finding that fateful carafe of bath oil. The oil that started all this madness. I have to say that when I inhaled the aroma from the box it reminded me of my grandmother with such amazing certainty...it took my breath away.
I am in love.
Again.
Alexander Vertinsky was just as enamored:
I'm dispatching a letter again slightly touching with kisses its pages.
And releasing your evil perfume, toxic air I gladly inhale.
Then it calls me to clearly see birds abandoning love through the ages.
Black and slender, they fly southward, from the flask of «Nuit de Noel».



Spring is coming apace, and Venetian young violinists
Will sing out your grief, dance away your despair and gloom.
Then blue faults will be easy to pass and our sins will be light and diminish.
Do not spare your kiss in spring season when almond trees break into bloom.



Don't be missing me long, my friend. I'm a gloomy and frozen creature,
At command of my rigorous master I'm dancing and tending to weep
While withdrawing your tickets of fortune, I am seeing your hopeless features
And to tedious moans of an organ I am helplessly falling asleep.



Here comes fair spring. Soon the frozen slush will be drying,
And primroses, violets, dreams will be blooming afield.
But we can't come to spring just by songs, and we can't come to spring just by crying.
With the organ we got careworn and already despairingly ill.



I am sending a letter again slightly touching with kisses its pages.
Don't be sad for the dismal finale and for poisoned words that I tell.
It's your evil perfume and my thoughts, black as birds leaving love through the ages.
From the bottle they fly southward, from the scent of «Nuit de Noel».