The sky is crying, its face gray
The moon is watching, wondering what may—
Come from this night; a shadow will pass
The painting in the looking glass.

Broad with streaks of enlightened pure
Luminous death will help the cure
Landscapes decayed rolling by
A burnt raven, through the dark, will fly.

Waves of blackened ebony strings
With eyes guilty of toying with flings
Melancholy stares from the colored paint
A brown texture with all clues faint.

Befuddled with the strings of Fate—
The girl in the painting realized, too late
That in this dark night of deathly sleep,
Her memory's grave can no longer weep.

The sky, with its tears of glory—
Cannot do anything, all help a folly
Bones ignite as sleep approaches fast
The painting in the looking glass.