Tis true that flesh once fresh and pink,
Shall soon grow gray with rot.
Tis true that lips once full and lush as the rose in bloom,
Shall soon succumb to decay's embrace.
Tis true that glistenining bejeweled eyes,
Will finally turn to dust.
As sure as Death still loves.
I've heard said that love is doomed
And affection lavished grows thin.
I've heard said that warm embraces melt to lonely beings
And hands once soft grow hard.
I've heard it said that sweet lovers fresh and new like the spring,
So die with winter's cold.
As sure as the Bean-Sidhe cries.
But I, Oh I? I shall not die
Not I as eternal as the sun and the moon.
Eyes like stars shall shine forever,
Flesh cold shall never decay.
Hair of spun silk shall never wither with death's hands,
Nor lips like rosebuds shrink with age.
Eternal? Oh yes, am I.
Untouchable? Nay indeed!
For though my body remains as a rose of silver,
My heart withers with each lonely beat.
Though visager remains the image of flawless grace,
My soul lays fractured like the shattered mirror
My mind but a fragile web of despair.