The Crimson Veil of Eternity

Her skin has that cold marble touch of your coldness.

While in her pupils a frozen hell burns.

A trickle of blood, fresh on her lips, is the fatal promise that her soul has been dislocated.

She wore a lace shadow and a mourning veil.

She calls to you silently from the dark ground.

Her hand is tempting to madness, promising a kiss of pure sweetness.

Do not look at her smile, do not heed her melody.

You will add another feather to her cap.