she rose grim, cold, in tears
had flowers rotting in her hair in bloom
red feathers smeared with ash and bitter tasted
the blood red waters of the moon

and she strayed charmed
many a year now dead
through autumned woods
'neath sickle moons that lead

the way towards frenzied words
that in the ruins of thy temple sing
and undiscover innocence - still found
in every ordinary thing

the echo of a voice remembered
and no wind...