She jumps through the whisper of the wind To harvest their sweet blood, to ammend The loathsome world, and to ascend In the world with no sheenβa fiend.
Cursed by the painters, and earthlings For debacles are what she brings. She lifts herself through the mutterings Even when she's shattered in her beings.
She, who sheens no light at fight, Has been mistaken as benighted. She carries not the death of a dead; She's an art who's known the shadow of a knight.