Within unearthly pinewoods,

beneath the syruped blades,

sleeps our fairest Alabaster

swathed in silk decay.


Burning through unclouded quartz,

her frightened eyes, bright tin-

waxen fingers 'round cold throat,

the molding fruit within.


Still lost in mournful woodlands,

two hundred years gone by,

still cradled by the coffin

that will never let her die.