There was gown of snowy white.
It glistens when exposed to light.
This gown once forgotten in a closet,
Clean, even though no one washed it.
For years, it was left there,
Waiting for the woman to wear.
And that day came.
That gown, clean and unstained,
Then bared a deep red.
A hole to the side was it fed.
The red, more vivid than rose,
Delivered by her foes.
This scarlet gown now turns black,
Burnt, burnt, burnt to ash.
The ash flutters away in to the ashen sky,
Fluttering to where my love now lies.