When the moon hangs far above,
Walk the loneliest path alone.
Let the trees cloak you in shadows,
And listen for her song.
A sweet and sorrowful tune,
Echoing sounds of heartbreak,
Words blurring into nothing,
Yet her misery bleeds through.
You will see her slowly approach,
And your feet will suddenly still.
Such an angelic and perfect ballad,
From a being of twisted flesh?
Deep wounds decorate her form,
Velvety red blood paints her skin,
Empty sockets stare with despair,
An unhinged jaw singing gracefully.
Yet as she stands before you,
You will only feel pity for her,
For the Bard walks alone,
And you cannot stay here.
She reluctantly moves forward,
Mournful wails louder than before,
Vanishing into the trees once more,
Leaving only her song behind.