She walked down the desolate roads of the necropolis
When she approached, the dead would wake and gaze
All shades and spirits longed for the nightshade mistress
Her skin was like silver porcelain, glimmering and glazed
And her eyes shimmered and soothed, mocked and glowed
The shadows of twilight all longed to touch her silken skin
Wherever she went great black majestic oaks would grow
She was a lady of vice and virtue, of compassion and sin
Loveliness shrouded around her gloom and her beauty
Of that particular intuition that only witches possess
She was a festival of mysteries, a gorgeous sorceress

A man riding on the oceans of nightmares
Heard her whispering wallowing shrieks
Watching her agony and torment; Oh,
How could she lament, with such beauty?

He rode his chariot through the heavens
Where the jubilation of joyous bliss springs
Where the dove and hawk lay side by side
Where the cherub strums and smiles and sings
Where the chariots of tender fire always ride

The necropolis faded into the background
And they were alone, together, in the shade
In a garden that could never wither or fade
In a place so quiet, it was devoid of all sound
In the silence they did sit, and quickly forget
All things before, while looking out to forevermore