She stood far from the rest, lonely pillar of solemnity:
"I don't like crowds" she said, her voice shattering.
The scythe in her hands seemed a shadow of eternity,
That only he could glimpse in the magic-spun evening.

He wouldn't walk on rough paths, joy fitted him better;
But she didn't need stable ground under her nimble feet,
Ever restless, hungry for change and stormy weather:
Beyond the blue horizon she'd run from all the deceit.

But where do you run to, how do you stalk the earth,
When you've crossed the last horizon into the sunset?
She left green eyes for ivy forest paths of lesser worth
And the world for solitude she swore never to regret.

The ring of roses around her neck ate away her body,
Yet it did not lead the soul back to the heart she'd broken,
And there was no land to run to away from the malady,
Only a hearse to take a corpse to the home she'd forsaken.

AN: Hmm . . . this is strange, I dunno where it came from. A 'ring of roses' is a name for a ring of red marks that appeared on the necks of people struck with the bubonic plague, I think the rest is rather clear, no?