Beneath a sky of blue and mist, awaken the bride whom death can never consume.
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.