she was something curious

always quick to make a fuss

given nought things serious

as such things as we

she is kind of hatred filled

in the night we find is stilled

by her blood–it is congealed

by death which is her

but to our wide eyed dismay

we turned quickly and away

from the night into the day

with no grief, we cared not

so the story is now told

of a maiden; fair but cold

never ever growing old

left to fill our dreams.

but a devil haunts her still

in her shroud is left to feel

nothing more but hate until

he has come for peace